Loyalty (*prose poem*)

I went to a barber. I really liked this guy. Since childhood he reminded me what a young man I was. Holding throat cancer in a recorder and pressing it to his chin, a dim buzz cut through all that noise. “What style?” Paul would never have asked me that. It was about time, though. He showed me the first one; I couldn‘t see, but it all looked easier than television. “What crime did I commit?” I asked, wild horse panic. A beefy prison guard with a crew cut (he was easily confused for a man among inmates) and chipped red nails wiggled a fat index finger to a leakage in area where criminals got their hair done. Tears spurted from a black dot. Red. A sort shed by icicles at winters’ end, meaning that much. Skin with a just, stern character of rigor, ice bagged blue, varicose eyes (those white marbles flipping). “All this,” he whistled painlessly, spitting teeth, “and for what?” Auburn locks grazed the lines on my forehead. And me? I knew my own blood when I saw it. “What about ?!” I screamed to an upper tier at 60. “Blood brothers.” “what style?”. Paul had grown tired and wanted to go home.