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Here's the first effort a day early, as I'm traveling April Fool's.
Left the barbershop newly trim and clean,
smelling slightly different, fresh faced and a bit
dreamy from the hot towels and the straight
razor; my face burning, after foamed, lathered,
massaged, plied and scraped. Half a block later,
in the same seconds, I received, and read
your note, turned and saw you, perhaps twenty
yards away, in the park, your hands casually
in hand. That beating thing in me jumped, sank;
it looked as if you were arguing.
It climbed up my throat, stuck there. Before arriving
home, I stopped and drank it down. My heart, my heart.
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