barbershop in the rain poem by Michael Estabrook

barbershop in the rain

It’s raining again at the barbershop,

it always seems to be raining when I get my hair cut,

but it’s OK. I simply sit there like the Sphinx

and think of my brother,

how he used to work in a barbershop

so many years ago and he’d cut my hair

for free, of course, on the weekends.

They always play that horrible elevator/dentist music,

that soft pop crap that makes you wonder

where the devil your old girlfriend is living now

and what her husband is like.