Washing My Hair

My hair tendrils wrap around

escaped words and absent smiles.

They collect door mats and goodbyes.

I wash the mess out every morning

in twilight showers and honey bees.

Cow kiss and road slick wet,

shiny with shoe polish and promises,

I brush it dry with bristled looks.

No matter how I knot or braid,

my hair flees free and 

captures the dust of the day.

published in Scuzzbucket