the barber

the barber
leans over with
his clippers,
his hand gently
moving your
head by touching
your chin. you
can smell
the cigarette he
smoked an hour ago
before you came
in and his cheap
cologne is a dull
cloud around
his chair. his
white tunic
is yellowed
at the collar,
the sleeves cut
short. his watch
has stopped
some time ago,
maybe years, but
it's gold
and shiny, and
he asks you how's
work, how are
things, he mentions
the weather, how
the wind is
blowing and blowing
outside
the large lettered
window, from
which he sees. he's
from another
country, somewhere
you've never been,
and yet here you
are, getting what's
left of your hair
cut, just you,
just him.