Bitting Cuts Poem by Salvatore Ala
Bitting Cuts
I've dad's key to the barbershop.
I keep it on my key ring
for its wistful returns.
It opens the barbershop door.
There's dad, arms frozen in air,
asking me to sweep ancient hair.
I don't mind but for cinema lines,
in which case I'm still embarrassed—
People looking in, as through time,
at the immigrant kid
swept up in a barber's dream,
without purpose or ambition.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/5/2024 3:41:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
An honest day's work.++10
Indeed. Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment.