The curl is cut back from the brown hair
to deny the frayed edges of his personality
to refer anxious idealism to the floor for a sweep.
He wants the exponent to be high and above one
up and to the right and a jump and again;
a vague sense of destiny until the sun's realization
that the other light out there are other suns.
At which point, imagined implosions shed the future
letting other hairs fall next to his prone form
on the fluorescent lit linoleum ground
where rolling chairs crush fingers and follicles with indifference.
Nova, no va, no vay, no way;
the stoppage continues as morale disproves
personality and action and adjective,
until the sidewalk calls
and the hair grows
and the feet walk
and his path unfolds
in unraveled motive glory.
Roman Ryan 