Runcible Spoon

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Even Now


Thinned out after all these years, it stands

straight up when I remove my stocking cap.

“Look!” says my wife. My granddaughters laugh,

trying with their little hands to pat it down.

It bounces back, a spring ready for action,

too alert for its own good.

It’s a lawn growing in fast motion,

a jungle canopy spread across my scalp.

Never bored, it always has something planned,

a surprise to embarrass me –

forms a picket fence above my forehead,

tangles like Medusa’s drunken cousin in the rain.

I threaten it with shears and goo,

but in midnight quiet I hear it laughing

to itself, wicked gnome bereft of conscience or regret.