Charles W. Brice: Elvis Presley Patch

Let’s face it

there is no hair left

on the top of my head.

Even if I bought a designer mop,

or had a hair transplant

and looked like I’d head-butted

a porcupine whose quills

injected fake hair follicles

into my scalp,

the hair that my mother

and father put on my head

is gone forever.

It’s taken thirty years

for me to lose my hair.

When Ariel was little

my gradual hair loss alarmed him.

He’d grab a maculate clump

close to my forehead—

my Elvis Presley Patch, he called it—

and tug. Why couldn’t it spread

to the bald spots, he wanted to know.

You can have some of my hair, Daddy,

he offered, not yet bound to ratiocination.

I’d thank him, then tickle and hold him

down until he said, Forgiveness

Holy Father Papal Emissary,

a fallen Catholic’s rendition

of Say Uncle.

I write this to my friend Sharon

whose hair has just fallen out

in the shower—all at once.

She thought, maybe, it wouldn’t happen

to her, but it did. As usual

she’s positive: It means

I’ve got powerful drugs

fighting the cancer, she tells me.

I bet you look like a cute

little Buddha nun, I write,

and fail to mention the flood of fate

that shines like a nimbus

in both our eyes.

—

Copyright 2016 Charles W. Brice. From Flashcuts Out Of Chaos by Charles W. Brice, published by WordTech.