I dream of scissorhands.
In this dream, I wake.
I see shredded bedsheets.
Flying feathers.
Bulging batting from my mattress.
My wife stands by the bedside,
saucer-eyed and staring.
These new prosthetics…
She points to the front yard in black night.
Go and trim the shrubbery she says.
I go out, clanking in dangling pajamas.
I know the one she means…
It’s a twenty footer, my pride and joy.
I grew it from seed, I think.
How old am I ?
But it is unruly.
Top heavy, jutting this way and that, like a bad haircut.
I set to work with my digital glittering knives.
(Always liked the sound of scissors, close by the ear,
warm barber’s hands)
I snip and slice and nip, so nice.
What will we see, in the lights of day?
We wonders, yes we wonders.
After all, you’re keeping me in the dark.