Oldguy notices the hair that used to
grow on his head now thrusts out
of his ears and nose so thickly that
he’s had to buy an electric trimmer
from The Shopping Channel, which
turned out to be a piece of crap.
He’s heard that, after you die, your hair
keeps growing. He shudders to think
of the coffin filling up with hair, which,
like the Blob, then forces itself out
under the lid and up toward light
till it makes a hedge around his grave.
He wonders if this growth could be
the start of reincarnation. Will he
come back as an orangutan, wooly
worm—or, better, a 21st-century
Cavalier? With locks flowing from
the right place again, he’d battle
the Roundheads, who seem to be
taking over everything. He’d fine them
for skullduggery, bounce pool cues
off their billiard pates, stick wombats
down their undies, flies in their ointment.
He’d gag them with big wild-hairballs.