To hide my naked head, I wear a rug
which mimics a dead cat.
Ah, how forgiving old age is!
No one wants to embarrass
an ambassador of dementia
by pointing to it.
I move through the markets
with my headdress of a cat,
chin up, haughty like a model
who’s graced the covers of Vogue
—my dead cat the latest
in Parisian headwear.
Still, I’m as alone
as a beggar with leaves
in his hair….
Ah, to have long tresses again,
mussed by a Greek chef, Zoe.
“Use olive oil,” she advised,
“to keep your hair healthy.”
Is that why I’m now alone?
It’s said love’s
assured if you stroke
a spoonful of liquid gold
daily through your hair.
If only, darling chef,
wherever you
and your urges simmer,
I could again rate you
a five star lover.
Ah, Zoe,
why would God embarrass me,
stealing my hair,
a little by little, quietly—
the way he stole
my youth?
