A poem
There you stand before the mirror,
comb-over artfully arranged,
patrolling the perimeter
of your ever-expanding forehead.
You’re not fooled by the thinning pate,
the shining scalp peeking through.
You’ve seen the hairs in the sink,
stranded soldiers in the shower drain.
Your mane is undergoing a gradual coup d’état.
No propecia or peppermint oil
can stop the insurrection.
Your hairline beat a steady retreat years ago.
Soon you’ll join the tonsured tribe,
swap hairbrush for razor,
attack ear and nose follicles,
waging battle against those rebel whiskers.
You thought gray was the only enemy,
but baldness surrounds you on all sides,
a bald eagle nesting
on your naked pate.
Yet you cling to the few ragtag tufts left.
They inspire poetry, like fallen soldiers,
as you gently comb the thin thatch
that was once a head full of hair.
