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I’m one of those model men
in barbershop or unisex
salon windows. I’ve held my breath
here, like this, for decades.
O distant youth, O brilliantine,
I saw myself the other day
across the street in running time:
gabardined, red-faced, gone grey.
The cow’s-lick and the kiss curl.
I’m holding out. I’m blue in the face.
Telstar still orbits the Earth.
We don’t like what you’ve done to the place.