the small black comb

for years
you had the short black
comb
tucked into the back pocket
of your worn
dungarees.
too young for a wallet,
for a set
of keys.
it was the comb that kept
you together,
being the boy
you were supposed to be.
finding a window
that reflects,
a mirror,
a toaster to slide it
through your hair,
even the part,
create the wave with
that elvis
stand hanging down
across your young face.