The day my barber was murdered
Tragedy is so.
The man who clipped my hair
and brushed my neck
was murdered in the early hours
no more to offer small talk,
hold a mirror to his customers.
I wonder, was his spirit in the air
when all those heads he regularly tamed
watched later that same day
a mirror on the New York world
that tumbled to the ground,
to leave a pile
impossible to sweep away.
How many even knew he'd gone,
or would have cared;
six thousand lives against his own,
the headlines waiting to be printed
and posted through the door
of the little barber shop
that would be closed for days now, in respect,
those papers piling steadily upon his floor.
So many tears,
so many running, caked with dust,
bloodied and unable to uncover those already buried;
so many tragedies heaped one upon the other
in dust and fire,
so many words already said.
the images of impact playing over,
so many hoping that the one they loved
did not now lie among the dead.
I wonder if he ever wondered
how many hairs he'd cut;
millions of course, in all his years of work.
All swept away, unmourned,
no minute's silence for a haircut,
nor now for he who cut them.
The shop is open once again,
business soldiers on without him,
the papers have been cleared away.
We sit and wait our turn,
and read the headlines;
such is tragedy.