Sunday, August 22, 2010


Editor's note: "A bald head is a Heavenly thing; there is no parting there," Dad quipped as the introduction to this poem.

My neighbor Sam is frugal bent;
He holds on tight to every cent.
And almost all his married life,
His hair's been barbered by his wife.

Clippings from her trusty shears
Accumulated through the years,
For she adored his curly locks,
And saved them in a storage box.

But Father Time is known to bring
Degressive change to everything;
And so, my neighbor, thru the years,
Grew less and less above his ears.

So there's no reason, here of late,
To snip or slip on Sammy's pate;
His noggin's like a billiard ball,
With nothing growing there at all!

It almost broke his spouse's heart
To see his tresses all depart;
For, where his wavy crown had been,
Emerged a dome of barren skin.

But she's so glad she saved his wool,
Half a dozen boxes full;
Up in the attic, stored away,
Mementos of a better day,.

And often, when she's feeling low,
She'll take a little break and go
To spend a tender moment there,
Running her fingers through his hair!

--The Buckeye Poet (1991)

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