All lengthening dies; so goes hair and hipster styles, <br />In what may be the last gray strand touched <br />On sideburns edged toward thoughts of perfection. <br />As he sat, motion displaced in the muscles, <br />He trusted my hands, those appendages <br />Moving across the hairline like eyes on stanzas. <br />He is the father, in and out of the abyss, <br />Though he's in my hands, slow turn-about, <br />And in his world, closer than I would have thought, <br />Vastly differing from when all was handled <br />By him: a near martyr with believable visions. <br />Now the nude back, a map of aging, mole-strewn towns, <br />Covered with wisps of hair, lying down to sleep, <br />Holds its strength in sight of oblivion <br />While releasing remnants of a past <br />That receive the doting, or vanish <br />Like small locks, inordinately soft. <br />Bringing closure through external acts. <br />The rarest spark? The father of triumph, <br />Heroes who you see in whole scenes, whole, <br />While they have devolved; shirtless, guileless, <br />(nervous in paradigms held together by need) <br />Till grooming's irrelevance leaves the place pale.<br /><br />Lamont Palmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cutting-the-losses/
