War Head
My hair is sodden—
A gnarled and drippy heap;
it boasts a faded glory
in disheveled mess; tantalizing
its feared adversary—
the plastic comb.
It’s lost the clash;
Its comrades culled from scalp lay still, split ended—
tangled between fleets of finest teeth.
They fought to claim the noggin,
clinging strand for strand against
the rhythmic pull and tug.
Death hovered closely behind
brandishing the blow dryer.
Conditioner could not save them.
In the pipes below,
There is one last effort:
To clog the drain.
