My hairdresser Frank’s own hair’s cut punk
today, livid as a ruffled bird.
He tells me about his brother-in-law
on the police force who tells him how
the cops punch out the punks on Main Street,
and get away with it too. They got
these leather gloves, he says, with brass
inside, so no bruises show, and even
if there are some, they’re gone
by the time the trial comes up, or the judge
will say you might have fallen down
stairs. This town is the farthest north
southern town, Frank says, switching scissors,
and nobody wants to argue with the mayor,
who appoints the police chief, and so on,
like a ricochet bullet, down
to your basic level of cop who takes
his shift to count the number of times
the same car cruises Main Street
in an hour. Three time’s the limit.
Then out he comes, cruiser flashing
red and blue. They mostly nail
the ones with racing stripes and mag
wheels, not the little Subaru wagons,
Frank says, spraying mousse in his palm,
lifting my hair to an elegant panic.
We are squared off in the mirror.
What’s more, the law says they can still
hang you here, he goes on, for stealing
a horse. I won’t, I say, I won’t.