The rain tapped cold on my shoulder,
waking my arms and neck, helping me
discover there’s bare skin worn through
the hair on the back of my head.
The surprise isn’t that I feel the rain there
at the Grownup Table of my skull,
but rather that I feel my fingers there,
unencumbered by what had always been
a black – now silver – jungle, turned savannah,
and now sub-Saharan anti-oasis.
The fingertips wander, kitten-like
through the tiny wasteland tonsure,
exploring its still-hirsute boundaries.
We marvel at the softness of the skin
stretching over this hardest of heads…
the one that washes and shaves in darkness
of unlit morning, when any manner of showers
never really awakened me to such secrets
as on this once so very far side of my life.