Her hair brush grew overnight <br />into a wide flat umbrella <br />Her force slid off her brush <br />and into her tongue <br /> <br />Strictly rigid she looked- <br />her hair brush- but alas <br />i felt the home fire with her <br />we missed the coffee <br /> <br />machine's readiness <br />a mile of pats she beamed at <br />but now she poured force <br />into her brawn and mouth <br /> <br />we were lost in our <br />mutual voice and faces <br />but now she practises her <br />peremptive tongue lash <br /> <br />around me, around us the mob <br />rumours she receives mobbing <br />for the uncivility in which she rebuffs <br />attention of others <br /> <br />but i need a warm object <br />outside of me that feels <br />and acts as if it were inside <br />of me- not a strange heap<br /><br />Michael Witkowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/methamorphosis-of-hair/
