Saturday, 25 October 2014
New poem: Chair
I was in the barber. When the barber had finished
cutting my hair, I got up and looked down at the
metal plate where my feet were, it was the metal
plate joined to the chair I had been sitting in. The
writing on the plate, said, ‘UTOPIA’. I put my jacket
on and stood at the bus stop. I wondered if I had
just been sitting in Utopia. Was that where I was?
Had I just had a moment in part of a perfect
society? I thought about what it had just been like.
Someone was cutting my hair. He comes from
Turkey. He used scissors. He also cut my beard.
He did that with an electric beard-trimmer. He
also blew some hot wet air into my face. It came
from a hot wet air machine. When it was all over
I gave him some money. Then I saw the sign on
the chair. So far, this didn’t sound like Utopia. Not
like a whole vision of the best possible society. I
was just sitting in a chair and someone was cutting
bits of hair off my head. Unless that’s what Utopia
is: people sitting in chairs having their hair cut.
And their face steamed. Then getting up and
standing at the bus stop. Actually, there were
some other things. They gave me a cup of coffee.
The young man who made it was learning
English. And learning how to cut hair. And there
were some newspapers on the table before I had
my haircut. I read them. And there were some other
people there. We talked a bit. That was before the
haircut. And, like I said, after the haircut, I waited
at the bus stop. Not for long. A bus came along