To John Sloan, thanks for the women drying their hair

It's 1912
and somehow
I'm 13,

sneaking up to the roof
on Cornelia Street

has become my weekly adventure.

staring in wonder

at these long haired, curvy creatures.

Broadway can have its vaudeville acts
and the society balls can keep their bells,

i only wish to serve at the beck and call
of these ladies on who's roof i'd beg to dwell,

pray, maybe kill to dwell,

to see their tresses even closer,
maybe even feel their locks
slip through my fingers,
sandy blond seconds
through the minutes on those
ancient timepieces
that last for days.

would they be at ease with me?
or too at ease with the nice jewish kid
from down the block

my hair stands at attention
and knows what it wants

to be ran through by 10, 20,
30 delicate swords
carving initials in my cortex
with nails sharp and sweet

my hair's never been
dried

like that.