The Immense Weapon Of Your Hair

for Nancy

Just back from
the beauty shop,
your red hair

in a perm,
the evening dress
back from the cleaners.

Your eyes flash
their Irish attitude
no one will challenge

unless they wish
to lose their head
just

to kiss the Blarney Stone.
Time spinning backward,
the hour hand

passing the minute hand.
The puny second hand
no thicker

than one of your hairs
curled in a fashion
of the day.

I’ve been ready
for an hour,
babe.