Before him they jostle in uneasy file
for the last time shoving
their fingers tingling

across their scalps, feeling
the hair drain like fierce
gutter water and watching the man

in the chair surrender to the subtle
violence of his fingertips hard
against one side of the head

while from the other side
the hair peels wasted by his
extravagant commitment to whatever

is uniform, basically trainable
from the roots on in. He is not
without care, without

tenderness even, this exposer
of bone. His hands have not lost
the ancient barber's trade

of healing. He endeavors less
to hurt than to avert, knowing no
two heads in the ranks share

identical contours. He shears
the vanity, but as he mutters "Next,"
he shares the gust of sudden

cold of those who step outside,
their appalling nakednesses
nicked with foreshadowings of war.