Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Wednesday, January 14, 2009: On the Street….That Smile, Florence

Maria trembled in the leather chair,
black smock hot, pulled to her chin like a bed sheet.
I’m sure. Let’s do it, she says, and the metal
saws into her hair. The stylist dangles
a length of yellow strands, places them
into Maria’s hands. The scissors sound
like a pushbroom on concrete, directing water or dust
toward corners, doorways. When it’s done, she stands,
snd surveys the discarded follicles on the floor,
scattered and mystical as tea leaves, ashes.


  1. So good - I love your short stories. I need to make them into a film like The Player!!

  2. Ooh, I love it, esp. as I just yesterday wrote a poem set at Institute de Beaute in 1943 Warsaw. Not exactly the same sort of beauty shop, but sort of. Cool!


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