Still playing catch-up from my weekend travels. I suppose you might call this a kind of found poem, another exercise from The Daily Poet. I’m going to take my mother to get her hair done more often.
Reblogged from the Lexington Poetry Month blog.
Overheard at the hair salon
The pain is a ten, but every time
I feel it I say, There’s that blue
five again. Sometimes it shoots
down my arm like a river
branching into my hand.
And my shoulder grates
like gravel. I can picture a plate
with holes in it, grinding
and catching as it moves.
The Daily Compost 