we were out for a haircut and I had taken his hand
and we were walking through the alley between the coffee shop and
the Salvador Market with the smell of trash from a damp green dumpster
and it was his first haircut and I gripped his small unpredictable hand
and there were a couple dozen birds up on a wire and the sidewalk
was lined in long shadows and we went into the barber shop
together because it was his first haircut and they had a special seat
for him and the scissors sounded in taut metal squeaks as the clippings fell
silently to the floor and his small tongue came out to bear the barber’s work
and when it was done they found a piece of licorice in a cup
near a pile of fresh towels placed square on the barber’s white shelf
and the floor was swept clean with a wide flat broom and we went out
and I took his hand again and a shine had come to the windows
of the stores and the shadows on the street had pulled back
a little and we both looked up at the wire and the birds had left
and we walked back into the alley where the morning was disappearing
into the shade between the stores

.

Henry Crawford is a poet living and writing in the Washington, DC area. His work has appeared in several journals and online publications including Boulevard, Copper Nickel, Folio, Borderline Press and The Offbeat. He was a 2016 nominee for a Pushcart Prize for his poem “The City of Washington” appearing in District Lit. His first collection of poetry, American Software, was published in 2017 by CW Books. His website is HenryCrawfordPoetry.com