Her laugh is a remedy for the space

left empty by their thoughts on future plans.

His hair is an attachment to the past and

projection into the future, a symbol of idealism.

12 years of dread locks, matted into perfection,

growing lop-sided because of the way he sleeps.

Who am I to call you up to bat when the years

have gone flat and lifeless like paper cut-out dolls?

I’m standing between horse stalls, blue jean cut offs

and a tank top on, showing all my tattoos.

You choose, who you are in this lifetime.

And from time to time we get glimpses of our

truest self, unshadowed by tomorrow’s musings.

That kid over there, it’s time to cut your hair.