Not many days ago that hot noon
in the barber’s saloon the mirror
served me a truth to alert me if I
was still the young man that I think
I am without a doubt ever raised
anywhere in my world of admirers.
I got my life’s lesson sitting stunned
as the wizard barber made me a paste
of some magic stone in his black pestle
with his hammer crushing that with a hum
of abracadabra to a pop played on his radio.
Every time after that embarrassing noon I had
my lucky encounter with my vanishing youth,
I would be drawn to that intimate hair-dyer
for looking into his whispering mirror and ask
if I still required his nod for looking young longer.
I often ask me now before I move out of home
if there would be time still for me to have a look
into a teaching mirror before I was sure myself
things were not out of hand for me to run
from pillar to post for a saloon bath past a dye.