You Can’t Park There

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“You can’t park there,”
she yells from the window,
the top of her head
wrapped in a blue towel
as she’s just finished
shampooing her thick crown
in the kitchen sink.

She can’t abide
her long hair freed,
eddying down
over bare skin
to become trapped anew
in every fold,
catching on hip bones,
turning to an irritation
of itch an hour later.

She prefers to steep in baths
or wear a plastic cap
when forced to shortcut
her grooming,
endure the disorder
of a shower.

Every errant hair contained.
Each auto directed,
its angle apportioned,
she reigns,
unqualified dominion
over lonesome house
near water’s edge.

If only once,
she’d leap,
submerge fully
without a cap,
let the rain drench
every misaligned hair on her head,
umbrella holstered,
permit cars to scatter
willy-nilly across the drive,
would she still be,
or possibly be even more?

November 2014
Julie Ayers

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