#134 #3 3/8"

from a warm autumn Sunday

i enter

i sit

middle of the kitchen

mother walks round and round

she the moon

my noggin the Earth

scrutinizing my head

clumps of brown

(long since white) 

drift to linoleum

arms folded

my nose tickles 

i blow 

she leans in

i focus 

the hum

electric scalp massage

the drone

bass note of the didgeridoo

finished

she brushes me off

hands a mirror

i nod approval

sweep the fallen

to dustpan

then dump 

to grocery bag

she vaccuums the tiny remnants

and i'm good 

for another few months

later i walk the bag 

to the garden and spread

a deterrant for unwanted ungulates

i rub my head

it feels cold out