I didn’t dream I’d feel so much improved,
but after 19 months, my hair got trimmed
by she-who-has-the-skill. The way it moved
against my nape was nice, but it was rimmed
with damaged ends, entangling bottom, grooved
on top, my drains were clogging, patience brimmed,
and so I slowly came to scissor steel,
with no idea how good the cut would feel.

(Ottava Rima)

This entry was posted in Coronaverse, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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