grandfather barbershop 

my father gets his hair cut
from the old man at the flea market
whose hand shakes while he holds
the clippers. he has a beard that reaches
his chest. my father says he prefers
the conversation. doesn't mind
that his hair comes out uneven
& sometimes lopsided. he cleans up
the trim himself in the bathroom mirror,
leaving a scattering of thorny hair
in the sink. i do not ask
what they talk about but i imagine
maybe the old man is gentle in a way
my father needs. i didn't know 
my grandfather long. he lived in
a house without windows & an empty
chicken coop in the yard. he fed me
jelly beans. from what i gather, he was
a man skilled at disappearance. at fading
into ceiling & doors. my father never talks
about him unless it is to tell a story
in which he tried to climb into 
a cistern to escape the world or another
when the tornado ate the sister town
& he thought death was coming for him. 
i do not know if the barber man is 
a grandfather man but he must be something
to my father. i have passed the shop
many times. one little white window 
looking out at the fruit stands & antique 
talkers. the candy stripped poll spinning
like a melting ladder. i want to get my hair cut there
at least once but i wonder if it would be like
taking something from my father. this,
his father now. the scissors sitting in
a little dish of blue disinfectant.
my father likes his hair long just like my 
grandfather did. once black waves 
now peppered white. he has never said this 
aloud but i watch how he handles his hair
with tenderness. resists whenever
my mom tells him to cut it but always
gives in. walks up the tree to the market.