She owned the barber shop she lived behind.
As her mind went, we thought we saw her form
In a nightgown and ancient bonnet roaming

The darkened shop one night. She seemed to float
Between the chairs, was mirrored back to kids
Who cupped their eyes against the window glass

Below the twisting pole. The plastic horse
For toddler trims shot spell-bound eyes. The stacks
Of towels, the strops, the scissors’ blades, the sink,

And tonic bottles loomed like shadowed totems
From secret ceremonies. Had she walked
In a deep sleep, or was she in our minds,

A dream that boredom wished? We could not know
And cannot know the truth of private visions
In a half-light that blurs her years with ours.