the barber shop

as a child
I feared the razor of the old
man,
the barber
in Barcelona.
his belly brushing against
my buster browns,
his garlic
lunch a cloud of despair
upon me.
how small I was in the thick
hot chair
that held me down
like sand.
I watched and listened
as he sharpened the blade
against a strap
of Spanish leather.
preparing me for what?
I was only six,
what possible reason would
there be
to place that shiny
knife against my brow,
my cheek,
my lineless face.
how would I look without
ears?
where was my mother to
save me
from this death.
shopping?
eating shaved lemon ice
in the promenade,
flirting with a
conquistador or a bull
fighter
in the cool arc of shade?