“I think of poetry as being more a transformation of experience
rather than a transcription of it.” -Carl Phillips
Finally after two months of growing
my Afro out, I went for a haircut.
“Neither I nor the world appreciates
your baby Afro,” my loving wife inveighed,
she, the African woman in my life.
“It’s retro, and passe, and bushy,”
she continued in a rhythmical riff,
“all fuzzy and uneven and unkept.”
“But don’t I need to grow it while I can?”
I vainly offered. It was futile. I gave in
and got it cut real close. Now I’m claiming
my haircut is the reason why Spring is
coming early; I don’t care what shadow
the groundhog may or may not have seen.