When the alarm went off
I stumbled to the bathroom,
felt for the light, turned it on.
Head hung over the sink
I drizzled water on my hand,
rubbed my face.
Looking into the mirror,
I dabbed drops on my scalp,
smoothed down my cowlick.
Now I am fumbling in the drawer
full of nail clippers, brushes, files,
for something to work out these tangles.
If there is a God,
a God right here,
who knows the number of hairs on my head,
even this plastic comb is sacred.
Return to Fall Issue Volume 11.1
Bill Ayres lives in Virginia Beach. Some days when it’s cold outside, the water is warm. His poems have appeared in The Hollins Critic, Commonweal, Plainsongs, Sow’s Ear, Jelly Bucket, and Bird’s Thumb.