On editing a post..

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.


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