For a Barber, Retiring

for John

The barber pole is idle. The front window shades are drawn,
the bright lights off. Cars still pull up slowly for a third peek
to make sure there’s no one waiting, that you’re really gone.
Other shops in town bustle and buzz. It’s been a busy week.

Your chair was always open for pavement-plodding drunks,
and disheveled loons, muttering to their own demons, wild
beside the pompous orators, speechifying morals on your tile
with petty politicians blaming all ills on long-haired punks.

No more talc floating gently down on stacks of magazines.
No more rambling complaints through which you languished.
The collar snapped, the apron off, we were neat and clean,
and though few of us are, you made us seem distinguished.

Your black soled shoes shuffled through snips and clips
of aging colors, every hour adding to the five o’clock sweep.
You’ll remember bald spots, jokes, haircut tears, old men asleep,
and our hands offering the shake, the damage, and a humble tip.