Poems Haut Monde

Manohar Shetty

He’s not yet into botox

but vain enough

for a transplant on his

thick head of hair to offset,

he confides, the future loss

twenty years on when

his pate might glint

like a Nikon

flash on the ramp.

 

It was painful but worth it—

these don’t fall or turn lank

grey with age, though

he concedes the doc’s fees

were steep with zeroes

on the cheque like the wheels

of a goods train,

but now is the time, isn’t it,

to live life like an Express?

And who cares if

the follicles—as doc calls them—

are artificial?

 

I admire his raven black presence

but can’t resist the obvious:

What of heart, kidney,

other internal parts?

But his smile is broadest,

teeth flashing like forked

lightning in glossy ads

for a cosmetic dentist.

Those parts, he beams, no one

can see and in my business

seeing is believing,

external is eternal.