nostalgic about the hair cut

i walk

by the barber shop

and peer in.

it's the same line

of chairs

against the wall.

my old barber Joe,

waves

to me with his scissors,

i wave back.

we haven't talked

in ages.

but we're still friends.

he doesn't

hold it against

me that

i'm doing my own

hair now.

i can still smell the onions

on his hands,

the garlic and oils,

the cigar smoke

on his breath.

i can hear his stories

of the old

days in his gravelly

voice.

telling me which deli

to try

the next time i'm in New York.