Poem #8: Not On This Head

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I'm having a bad hair day:
somewhere between Don King and
Albert Einstein.
If I let it keep growing
perhaps no one will notice
the slowly balding spot on top;
or perhaps I'll end up looking like
a 9th century Irish monk.
The pony tail of my youth
seems almost impossible now.
Hats, always appealing, now have
even more significance.
I stare at the razor next to the sink.
No. Not yet. Not to this head.
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