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other poems
sports poems
china poems
Saturday Morning
Right out the door of
the Touch of Class
beauty shop strides
a giant woman
in sloppy jeans
and faded sweat shirt
and a brand-new
double-decker bouffant—
back into her old Ford
she scoots, slides
but the hair’s too high,
won’t go.
It must be urged in,
gently,
with her left hand.
Sitting low,
the hair barely scraping
ceiling,
she starts the engine,
revs up,
jerks into drive and
peels off toward tonight.