Dazzling

it's almost over

you are in a peroxide hour
head twitch scalp bite eye burn
an unforgiving glass throws you back
at yourself in your severe robe of blue

you are at the end of your second
long black, dregs of raw sugar caramelised
in a coat of rich and bitter coffee
and you're buzzing, you know you won't sleep

you check the others in the mirrors surreptitiously
that ash-blonde sheath of hair blown aggressively
behind you, the henna-green to the left
reading Harpers under her space-age hot head-piece

you look at the paintings of geometric hair, enlarged
black and white shots, sculptural and perfect,
with faux- scientific texts and words that sound French,
while the hairdriers whine and the radio booms

you take the guilty pleasure of thumbing through trash,
looking mainly at the pictures, it satisfies a curiosity
you are processing, you floating in no-man's land
with its suspended relief of duty, its selfish freedom

you are nearly ready to have your head rinsed
you will be all the one colour once more
and you will pay and then go back out into daylight
and you aren't glad that it's almost over