A Strand of Hair

 

His slender face, angular-nosed,

capped by dark-brown hair

styled to the left, perfect but

for one dangling strand, the

tiny flaw that saves beauty

from impossibility, beard neat

but not too much so completing

the facial frame, contrasting

with clear, white skin; simply

but attractively dressed in black

Henley, buttons undone, uncuffed

grey jeans encasing long legs

dangling from the bar-height

chair, long-toed feet in flip-flops

crossed; mouth serious, mostly

focused on his work, but with

some effort—from time to time,

he raises his eyes and scans the

room, or checks his phone, smiling

only then. Not sure whether

his work is scholarly or businesslike,

his exact age also hard to call,

though he’s clearly young. At

the coffeehouse alone, but looks

likes he should be the boyfriend

of someone, whether he is or not.

But then he could be the type

who takes it all too seriously,

making long-term plans too

soon, the kind of man who

doesn’t fear commitment but

expects too much of it too soon,

and though that’s not what I need

right now or maybe ever, that

fallen strand of hair

might lasso and corral me.

 

Copyright 201

T. Allen Culpepper

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