I lived in a small urban town
tucked inside a farming community.
We removed the Christmas tree
and unraveled the lights to box for another year.
My wife and I sat over coffee
on a Saturday evening.
Dancing flames cracked
over oak logs.
She said I needed a haircut.
I didn’t want to, but I decided to go.
The barber cut my hair.
Before me, people sat in chairs
past the door and to the wall.
One man flipped through the local paper.
A farmer sat wide-legged with his arms looped.
He talked as though anyone gave a fuck
what he had to say.
But stupid people have no problem
feeling important.
The clippers buzzed around my ears.
The men talked politics.
I briefly closed my eyes
and let out a sigh
that I didn’t know existed.
I lifted my gaze to the cars,
splashing, melting snow
over an enclave of burned bridges.
Global Warming escaped the mufflers
as a vapor in the January weather.
I turned my mental channel
within these four walls.
I sat still as the barber
trimmed my beard.
Opinions.
Everyone has one.
But the fact remains: these people
need to get out more.
Politics this.
They go to rallies.
People protested protests.
They know someone who loves Trump.
You make me fucking sick with that! I thought.
How’s that for a fucking thought?
That’s what I thought.
The barber set the clippers aside
and removed the dark cape.
He shook the hair off
and received my payment.
I told the man to take it easy.
I moved through the door,
telling them I’d pray for them.
Gobsmacked, every one
of these men had nothing to say.
Nothing Good.
Nothing bad.
And I enjoyed planting the seed
for them to think of someone else.
I closed the door and left for a bar.