Elegy For A Follicle

Not just a hair.

But the last picket of the former hairline.

Left behind when the third eye was blind.

I kept it trimmed. On weekly sweep.

A bother, I thought it was.

I am not self-conscious, but self-conscious enough.

More alone by a millimeter per year it stood

as a reminder of the archaic border.

After days of less-than-thoughtful-hygiene,

standing tall,

it would be greeted

through the mirror with a wincing glance

or mild eye-roll.

That single-strand vanity curl.

All me.

The remaining follicles retreated.

Always, it could be found, at times, week-long,

and upright in the waxing forehead tide.

Then, I checked. Nothing.

The smallest hair that fell. Soundless.

The follicle- now a scar.

“Where’s my little friend?”

Gone. Can you blame it.

I look on the times its presence was noted with a scowl,

and regret.

The attitude toward a follicle that did its job so well.

Its position and tenacity it could not help, but

who among us could live up to the job.

Perhaps if it had a voice, it would have replied:

“Ok, Boomer!”

I hope that it was that comfortable in its own skin.

Well, mine.

Immediately missed. With the loss noted,

not just as a milestone, but also as the passing

of one strong structure.

Not just a hair.

The smallest hair that fell.