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The Barbershop

John Hyland 
When I moved up here
I got my hair cut
regularly, a change for me, at a 
barbershop that smelled of the 50s
down on the corner.

Every time I went there,
the barber, in his sixties, grey,
asked me the same question.
"You got a job?"
"No," and the conversation
would end as quickly as the reply.

Then one day I went
in and placed myself in the chair
and got the question. "Maybe, I
have an interview this afternoon."
Conversation bloomed.
"Where you from?
Some weather, huh?
Why are all these kids shooting each other?"
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