I walk late at night,
turn the corner for home.
Just before I do
I stop by the barbershop window.
I look inside
every time I pass by.
I don’t know why, I don’t even
need a haircut.
Blue comb water, red leather chairs.
Naked coat rack, empty squares
on the side of the door
where picture frames used to hang.
Soft buzz of the neon
sign just behind the glass.
My Dad would get his haircuts here.
First in when they would open,
3 on the sides.
Would bring the barber danishes from
the bakery next door.
I look at the floor.
Heads in and out all day,
not a fucking hair in the place.
3 on the Sides
Ian Valor