by Jean Biegun
I’ve been thinking about sin lately,
the push of black and white hats in the world.
Here at Supercuts waiting for a trim,
I watch new piles of clippings
get swept up by Kori, my confessor this week.
She nods soft sympathy
while intuiting my crimes:
No, the kids won’t be home for Easter,
too busy, new jobs and all.
My gray hairs fall on the cape around my neck,
DNA strands spiraled tightly in each snip,
sins of the fathers and mothers,
generations that still keep growing from my head.
Kori has blessed me with a clean look this time.
I pull my knit cap down to keep warm
and hurry to the Full Canteen next door
for coffee and another try for forgiveness
of flashbacks in black and white hats.