Saturday Morning in the barber's chair

he was a large man

with fingers

like sausages.

i was

a small boy sitting in

his barber's chair.

i could smell the onions

on his fingers,

the garlic

on his breath,

the salami, the prosciutto 

the provolone.

his belly bumped

the chair

as it spun around,

there was a long striped sheet

wrapped

around me,

my shoes dangled

in the air

not reaching the leather

step.

i heard the scissors

snapping

like crickets,

dancing

around my ears.

the girls will love you,

when i'm finished,

he said, with a laugh,

dusting my neck with

a cloud of powder,

then giving my cheeks

a gentle

slap with a blue cologne.

i drifted off, as if

in a dream,

wondering which girl i'd

pick,

which one would be

the lucky one.

who would be my queen.