Sitting rumpled
damp and
lowdown—in a nonetheless
trumped-
up and
loud pivoting chair—my slippery
existence
starts to dilate
while I'm waiting—
accosted by several thinlipped
and skinny
iced tea offers and
such chill!
satellite
radio blasting;
even the crumpled up
hair on my head
is starting to feel
a little
less real
than I'm sure it did
just a minute before—on curious
account of this
insidiously
frigid air! currently—snaking
like heck
around this little chrome
hell of a barbershop.
