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Cobolt [Ten Poems]
65
An Orange Hidden
Under a Milky White Towel
On afternoons when I went to the barber as a child
with the round, white sun
glazing tangled streets,
reflected in the mirrors of
cars half hopped on curbs,
even the façades were rendered bearable
on blocks skirting the working class neighborhood an
orange hidden under a milky white towel is
the way I feel every time
I recognize the smell of cheap lotion on skin
in the strange familiarity of salons
bathed in unnatural light.