"My Comb-Over"

 

A story, I’ll tell you,

Although, I’m sure no one cares.

It takes place on my head,

Featuring four lonely hairs.

 

Whenever I’m at the barber,

The thing I most dread

Is his accidentally cutting

Those four hairs from my head.

 

I warn him beforehand:

“Those four hairs are off the table.

I shall nourish and protect them

As long as I am able.”

 

At times, they’ve surprised me—

Grown almost four inches tall.

Then, I’ll personally trim them…

No hairdresser need I call.

 

One time a barber cut them,

Which left me appalled,

To look in the mirror

And realize I was bald.

 

Someday, science will help me

With some pills or some cream,

And my cranial fields will bloom

From four hairs to ten,

To a thousand, and then…

My comb-over will be the envy of the room.

 

B. Kite -- 6/19/2024

 

Done