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.