and thrust an accusatory
finger at his brown-eyed
grandson.
“I’m sick of your
dreadlocks, boy,” he said
his ancient, (lined) ~~whiskery~~
face contorted in angst,
“I’m sick of the the way
they spill from your head
like jaundice needles, like
obscene pasta, why don’t
you get a haircut, goddammit!!”
He sat down slowly, ~~and read~~
tilted his head, ~~and prayed~~
painfully, ~~and watched~~ the old
scenes unfold within
the waterstained sequin
ceiling stucco.
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