Parlor tricks

set in the late 1800’s to early 1900’s African-American community , a boy joins his father as a tradition to go to the barber shop. This short poem relies heavy on African-American culture and time.

 

As a kid, the idea of tryna talk when gettin’ a cut always seemed crazy,

one lil’ mistake n’ all you here would be gasps n' chuckles from the other barbers.

As a kid, I neva’ understood why it took Pa two hours to get a haircut every week.

Surely no ones hair can grow that fast and conversations that long, Right?

Sure they had music bumpin’ old blues, but those  ol' red chairs ain't that comfy.

I’d sit annoyed hearin’ em’ rant bout revolution n change, I ain’t really care.

I was a kid.

 

I’m not that same kid no more.

Bout' a day after his last cut, Pa got run up by the police, talking outta’ line they said.

A good man, treated like an animal, and my adolescence was poached when Pa was.

The “Boys in Blue” with uniforms scared in scarlet.

I ain't step back in that parlor for months, plagued by memories, till ma told me to try.

She was always gentle n’ loving,  but when she said somethin’, you do it.

The wind of the walk delayed my anxiety, freezin’ the thoughts away.

 

The parlor looked same as it did before.

Old brick with a couple brothers outside.

 Bumpin’ blues and conversations flowing, as if nothing ever happened.

The bell rang to life just as my heart died when I opened the door.

“Well, I be damned if it ain't brotha John’s ol kid”.

This was a mistake, they’re gonna ridicule me for never returning.

My thoughts did the only thing our people have apparently been good for, running.

“C’mon kid, we got stories to share, get comfy, chair got a lil cold since y'all been gone”.

 

 

Author's Note

I am still a very young and developing writer, and i would love feedback!