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.

2 comments

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

    ReplyDelete
  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!

    ReplyDelete

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