by Brett Peruzzi

Bill the barber’s hands
are blunt instruments
holding sharp edges.
He cuts my hair
with muscle memory
forged after decades
circling the chair,
leaning in to trim
thousands of mens’ heads.

He’s probably walked
around the world
circling that chair,
like hiking from here
to those mountains
in Morocco,
photos from
his last vacation,
taped to the wall.

Did you climb
those mountains,
I ask, nodding
toward the wall.

Morocco, he replies,
answering instead
the question
that he must get
all the time,
as he picks up
the clippers
to finish the job.

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