Barbershop

Now that the barbers has closed,
The hairspray hangs heavy in the air,
and a few dark curls scatter the floor,
missed by the broom’s last sweep.

The worn chair cushions breath out,
after the fury of a thousand cuts.
The scissors snapping like piranhas,
above still and sturdy heads.

The mirror is a portrait whose face has gone,
emptied of meaning, like the whole room,
Now the customers have left
and all is sunk in silence and gloom.

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