Thursday, July 20, 2017

AMATEURS

Like some set from
a Hollywood
movie that

I would have indecorously missed
the first twenty
minutes of,

the subway-
tiled urban

neighborhood
men-only

hair salon
waiting room—

apparently
boasts
an electric blue vintage

fridge full
of Michelob—

the kind
in those little
8 oz. faux-bottle rocket ships—

and I
can only think,
as I catch

my first nervous
sidelong
glimpse in there

from the
dopey red leather
chair

where I've
hardly ever felt
more professional-

ly juvenile
and vulnerable
in my life—

that
those sorts of
bewildering props

must be
for all the
bumbling understudies

who go
around showing up
a few minutes

early—for
appointments.

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