Mustafa and the Makeover

Mustafa who knew me well was a refugee too: he from Syria, me from the realm of common sense.

How would you like it cut? he asked.

Like yours, I said.

Like mine?

Yes.

He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t comment on the outrageousness of my request.

Apart from the difference in hair color, there was also the disparity in volume though he admitted, even at 27, he was losing his hair.

He cut, he swooped, he shaved, he teased and cajoled but when finished he wrought a little miracle.

How did it look?  Shaved at the sides , but on top what hair I had was swept to the other side of my head and held down by gel. It looked amazing.

Askew, I said, It looks amazingly askew.

Like your writing, he said.

Yes, like my writing.

Put a Moat Around it

I have a mote in my left eye

not the metaphoric one that Jesus

spoke of

but an actual one of grit.

I have amoat in my head too

which is metaphoric.

It cuts me off from needy people

which is kinda funny

coz I’m needy too.

Some people are overly guarded.

Too many moats to cross.

Australia has a moat,

a helluva big one

called the Pacific Ocean

on one side

& the Indian on the other

the one that boat people crossed

to get to Australia.

One family from Vietnam

lived across the road from us

for years.

I wrote about the man, the grandfather

in my first book.

[I’ll post it tomorrow]

A moat as big as the ocean

is hazardous.

Not everyone made it back then.

The Earth is surrounded

by a moat too

the vast star-studded ocean

of space.

I could go on but this poem

is starting to drift.

so I’m going to put a moat around it

and close it off.

* photo by juvnsky-enton-maksimor on Unsplash