Reading Heads

Some people read palms.

Others read minds.

I read

the back of your head.

Gray hairs

from forty years

of overtime hours

earning just

enough.

A bald spot

just like your father’s,

who died too young

from overdose

and struggled for years

with alcohol.

The dent in your skull

from an accident

when you fell asleep

behind the wheel.

Highlights,

platinum blonde,

and other extravagance,

paid for bimonthly

thanks to the will

of Daddy Dearest.

Silky white

spiderwebs

that fought a war,

raised a family, 

and owned a bookstore.

A hand-done dye job

in a homemade salon

that left purple streaks

in the bathroom sink.

Your mother was furious.