her new red hair

you like her
new hair doo.
it's red, the color
of rust, like
the rust
on the back panel
of your father's
59 chevy impala.
it's as natural
as a three dollar
bill.
you feel that if
you could turn
her upside down,
like a human
cutip
you could use
her head to steel
wool a stretch
of wrought iron
railing, or scour
a tenement tub
in old hell's kitchen.
but she likes her
hair.
it's a statement.
it's an idea.
it's an insane tumble
weed upon her head,
but she wears it well,
and you say
to her, something
along the lines of,
I like your hair.
nice. it's you.