Dad’s Room

by Cassandra Dallett

On his wall hung ponytails
still in their rubber bands.
He cut them off once a year
and hung them, petrified by grime
like horns of some strange beast.
A beaded knife case next to them,
as if this buck knife was responsible
for the slaughtered hair.
Below the tails a bookcase,
dust on top of greasy dust,
paperbacks lined up,
Sci-Fi, and Beats
things he liked to dig
but I never saw him read.
Only papers and magazines
at the Kitchen table
Penthouse, Playboy,
National Geographic.
The dirty mags he kept,
boxed up next to the bed.
A dingy white radio
side curled up,
yellow melted plastic, from
balanced burning cigarettes
played around the clock.
From my bedroom I wondered
if the Bee Gees were boys or girls,
what a douche was and why
someone would be wrapped up like one
in the middle of the night.