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The Hair




The Hair



It breezes by as she rocks and moves,

grips me and throws me…

I barely can hang on.

No one thrills me like her.

 and it is better each time.



My hair is short. it cannot be stroked by L or pulled by J.

The wind in the ear, like the whisper of E,

 the whistle of speed through the head, like the words of S.

The ride of H and the soar of M.



They are all wonderful women. They are not her.

This is my mistress that is here.

My true love.



She has wrapped herself around me

and I am holding on.

She makes the earth move, move like no other.

She is the one, alway has been,

the devil who waved her finger in my direction

 as a young boy.

 I trembled when I first approached her.

she led me on and brought me on.

 I was scared. still am, and it thrills me.



And it always will.



For her to hold me tight

and to have me let go. to really laugh.

 to really hold. to really let it go.

She goes by many names, this devil woman.

The Racer. The Jackrabbit. Pippin. Thunderbolt, Dipper

Wait for her so that

she may breathe this air,

so strange to her heart. cloud by cloud.

and wait for her



We drive the dreams

to delicious reality ul







  





Tom Squitieri







Tom Squitieri is a three-time winner each of the Overseas Press Club and White House Correspondents’ Association awards for his work as a war correspondent. He reported from all seven continents, always writing as a voice for the voiceless. His writing and reporting have been published in an array of newspapers and magazines. Tom has taken his love of storytelling to poetry. His poetry has appeared in The Raven’s Perch, No Strings Attached, Style Sonata and The Griffin’s Inkpot.


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