Last six more years? As the part
gets lower on the left side,
what will happen to the right?
It’s the wind that’s the nemesis.
Deplaning from Air Force One,
the hair doesn’t arrive with him.
It wants to continue to fly,
to soar above bald, bare life,
or at least wave to the crowd.
Coarsening through the 70s,
each year will challenge
color and face, two roads
diverging in a yellow wood.
He’ll need gorilla glue
or perhaps a new coiffeur.
Imagine the Senate confirming
the keeper of the royal locks,
the dresser of errant tresses.
A toupee or periwig will
never do for the man whose
constancy has never been fake.