Waiting for our turns at Louie the Barber’s, <br />we look through porn culled from the coffee table, <br />at the silicon breasts, the buck green eyes, <br />and listen to the dirty jokes, each fable <br /> <br />of conquest. A draft from a swirling fan <br />spreads the scent of booze and talcum powder. <br />And we avert our eyes from the long face, <br />the ugly young man in the chair, as louder <br /> <br />the clippers buzz, and locks of golden hair <br />fall from his scalp, commingling with the dust. <br />Goat-like, with pimples oozing pus and blood, <br />he evokes not pity, but disgust: <br /> <br />the thought that we too must sit in the chair, <br />we with our porn, our dirty jokes, our folly, <br />the booze in our guts like gehenna’s flames, <br />but all of us still beautiful and holy.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/satyr-3/
