Two poems

Will I Get a Sucker Afterwards?

I sit in the swivel chair,
receiving my sixty-seventh haircut.
Hundreds of snippets
dance slowly downward toward the cold, white floor
where they'll eventually get swept up with the garbage.
Mom says my hair grows too fast.

I carry my bag,
walking to my second class.
Millions of people
dance slowly through life toward a cold, grey stone
where they'll eventually rejoin the earth.
I grow up too fast.


DOUBT

You ask me repeatedly,
like dancing Wind
lifting you toward the high,
yet I tell you,
like Centipede daunting you
on your ceiling,
it is still there.