Striped like the suit of a clown

in reds and whites

or a drunk flag

pasted on doors of every town;

smoky mirrors of rusting gold,

clipping shears set out for work

waiting for the town gossip

to take his turn.

Men and boys perch

on slatted redwood benches

for their five minutes undivided

of old Ernie’s chatter,

soused by now.

Each waits in turn

listening to woes of life

to be solved by all.

Now we go to shrinks

and pay $200 an hour,

yes, the barber is cheaper

but is he better by far?