Barbershop
As the barber snipped and combed,
lathered and groomed, I lapsed
into a kind of understanding
with the universe. There
in his chrome-and-leather swivel chair
as his small talk raged in my ears
I counted each hair as it fell,
a hirsute mail on my chest.
The mirrors, berserk with light,
redoubled the room. A twitch
in time, you might say. Epiphany.
I've heard it can happen that way.
—Marc Alan Di Martino
—found in Invisible City (Spring 2023; Issue 6)