Comb Over

Grease the palm that earns the bread,
Wringing hands together in nervous frenzy,
Running fingers through the hair of the head,
Reflecting hard on what’s yet to come.

Time for a parting of the ways,
The grand brush off comes painlessly.
Hope is gained for the division stays,
Everything swept aside in a couple strokes.

Crossing over where things grow gray,
Streaks in a field of yellowed grass,
Each blade must have a perfect lay,
Things will never be black or white again.

Victimized by age and time of life,
It is a vain mans thoughts that betray,
That give him pain and strife,
To at least have hair to run a comb though.

The perfection that once was his head
Has been replaced by the need of magic.
At least he’s not like his Dad whose dead,
Who died with something less than a comb-over