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.
