At age fifty-six, Celeste, I’ve learned to comb my hair
And have Michael Douglas to thank for that—
You know, the son of the famous actor
Who has gotten famous in his own right.
(And said in one of his films how he doesn’t
Look into the bowl after he has gone potty.
Said it with angry pride, as if to say there is something
Wrong with those of us who do.)Things run together now, Celeste. Like a ball of string
Life becomes, compacted so you can hold it in your hand.
Something like that. The thing is to not throw the ball away.Anyway (that’s your word, Celeste), in Wall Street
He takes a comb and runs it through his wet hair
With just a few strokes, front to back.
Those are power strokes he is giving his hair
And a power boost he is creating for his face
To ensure it will not be in hiding, hair falling
Over the brow, as if there is something to conceal.I’m doing the same now, Celeste. I’m doing the same.
I’m out on the street with my hair combed back
And full of gel and my face right there for people to see.
I’m walking along like it’s time not to care:
Feeling good, feeling strong, feeling like a man
Finally should in the breezes that are blowing.January 2004