Wedge of Blacktop, Saturday, 1955

All they could wish was this wedge of blacktop

by the back-porch stoop of this matchbox cape

in this shirt-cling evening of a dog-day swoon, the Breadloaf radio set out on the rail, the longneck beers, dead soldiers on the stairs,

Blanche kicking high in her greasestained dress,

her great girth tweaking like she’s traveling light,

Chaz winging free right into tomorrow in

his busman’s pants, his spit-shined shoes, a sleeveless top, sweet jazz in his moves to the toot of Duke in “It Don’t Mean a Thing,”

and a switch of the dial to slow it all down

to arms ringing round to doo-wop sounds

could melt chrome off the Chevy, roll honey

up the driveway of the house next door.

Haircut

It was one of those family discount haircut stores

where you get the next of four or five hairdressers.

She was petite, in her early 20’s likely, tattoos of something on her upper right arm, short-cropped hair dyed orange, a small ring in her left nostril, and introduced as Megan, and I wondered what I had gotten into. Then, without my saying, she told me what I wanted,

correctly, and commenced to move deftly through my shock of wild Einstein hair, snipping in neat layers with scissors and comb

as snowy tumbleweed rolled down the dark-blue cape, and my remark that she seemed a pro set loose a flow of self-revelation of wanting to get into graphic arts like her dad but ending up a hairdresser instead, practicing on her dad till she got it right, and how this was art too, wasn’t it?

And in no time she was done.

Dropping scissors and comb she picked up her hand-mirror

and flashed back a perfectly-sculpted cut, saying this was part of her, and I’d be taking part of her with me.

As I unhooked my jacket and reached for the sleeve,

I looked back to see her sweeping my hair-clippings into a delicate standing pile

and ever so gingerly picking it up with her fingers

and placing it down under her big-mirror work station, as if it were a cast-off secondary creation, just as perfect, from me to her.

February, Hubbard Park

This winter walk along the old pond wall draws me into grazing long on pauses. Below my feet in deep-down cracks, I feel

the nerve-pulse stem and veiny root awaken.

The broom-straw maples spike the low-cloud

ceiling where the crows go silent in their perch.

Three mallards paddle into floating clouds of

soggy bread tossed out by morning’s feeders.

The mud, its suction grabs my heels as if it wants to say, stay.

Copyright © by Paul Scollan; Work for CT Poets’ Corner is selected by invitation.