The Hair Wars

donald trump

Father’s Day is a farce.
Its that time of the month
That on a Sunday, you go to your parents house
With a cake and cut one mouthwatering slice
To reflect on the years gone by.

My dad always had a blueprint
For life, he always saw the unlocked gate
Or the un-padlocked bag with a bigger eye.
Danger was a constant threat to him
And all he could do was worry, even when I’m
Five minutes away from arriving back at the house,
Or when I speed at 100 kmph on the freeway.
And he had a blue vein that gets bigger
On the forehead, every time something
Uncomfortable was about to happen.

And from the window of my house, I see a street light
Under a full moon. A metaphor for my dad,
Who fosters the fine art of near-perfection
Around the edges and jello in the middle.
That’s what he calls love these day.

And I’m that street light that looks
Up to the sky, when sons are perennial understudies
That pass their days lighting the bulb on top,
Which always looks a little paler, a little un-incandescent
Next to that well-rounded bald moon,
That is my dad, on the reclining chair
Rabbiting away at the news
Of how Trump this or Trump that.
– And No, he is no Trump fan. –

And I look at his bald head
Bright on top as any bald man is,
No head lice or dandruff, just a brief
Comb-over that gives some modesty
To the fur. Sometimes, I look at him combing his hair
Caught in his own world, a little tradition he tells me
Only bald men can correlate to.
Those little strands of ego that are fertilized
With coconut oil and fly carelessly
In the savage wind and how he chases his hair
And tucks it in a few times a day.

And I sometimes see him looking at Mr Trump’s hair on TV.
That blue vein on the forehead bulging out

The full moon turning peridot green.

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