Salon

The radio plays
It’s too late to apologize
while the old man in orthopedic
shoes sweeps up hair clippings
and curls, and shaming white strands,
with the stick of his red broom,
swishing.
The yesterdays and split-endings
no longer needed, whisper
to him their secrets.
And as the undertaker, he taps
and clears what were once
crowns on the heads of proud winter wheat,
cocoa plant, and ash.

He knows:
mirrors can shatter a face to pieces,
as tearing the flesh of a pod
scatters peas to the wind.
And the shadows stretch
longer here,
but they can’t fit into dustpans. They come with us
with the weight of memory.