The Ichabod Crane

I trimmed my beard today,

back to sporting the Ichabod Crane,

thoughts haunted by my wife’s voice, 

as faceless hair circles 

and clogs the drain twice.

What pale skin  

below this black and gray

bare tundra I so disdain,

it bothers me losing my chin

to such a stiff razor wind.

Alas, spring swings into summer

sheers to shave off asphalt

and aerate albino jaw lines,

air conditioning at the 

eye-blinding expense of the

public stuck in traffic lights.

As I stare into my side-view mirror,

my vanity and mortality

are closer than they appear,

a white follicle snows atop my smile,

seasons inside me all

swept into the clear.

I crank up the radio

and let the moldy oldies warm

my misplaced, out of body soul,

for I have miles and miles still to go.