His scissors nip waves in my hair
with kisses on each crest,
like a migrating shearwater bird.
"What have you done?" he asks,
it's all written
he says, the way it falls,
its weight, shade and tint.
"It's IT outsourcing, I'm in between jobs."
He nods, steps out and comes back
with a bottle of wine.
Pours me a glass and returns
to my hair,
"the skies learn to grow old,
but your hair doesn't have to."
He applies an oil treatment
and continues his thought flow,
his Chinese girlfriend is a bitch,
and have I heard of house flipping?
he's tired of clients
and wants to flip houses.
He hands me his latest find,
a CD case of Desi Arnaz
and he leads the band of Cuban rhythms
with his feet, face, and arm wiggles.
"Could you believe it was in the sales bin?"
he calls from an impromptu dance floor.
He runs his fingers through my hair,
asks if I want my fortune read.
"Not today, thanks." I hand him his payment,
he asks me to help him finish the bottle.
We hang out in the balcony,
enjoy the city lights and sounds,
talk of our boys,
the small fortune we spent
and their stops and starts
in their journeys through life.
I get home and find he tucked
the payment in my handbag.