Pat Sprowl's Barbershop

The farmers came in on Saturday for their weekly shave
and Pat would beat up suds in a thick white cup
and lather black beards with a brush,
then would tip chairs back
and wrap up each face in a towel he had rinsed out hot.

The farmers napped or, if not, just lay there and listened.

Pat cut the hair of schoolboys who tried not to stare
at magazines there in the shop
while the old men talked
of women and weather and crops. 

Then Pat would start stropping his razor
and make a sound like the slapping of water in a pond
and test the hone
and wipe the blade clean on his palm,
then turn around and sit on a stool just beside
and like God look down
on the face of a farmer survivor.

I could hear the rasp of the razor
as the blade slid down against beards that resisted like wire,
saw the blade move round
the cheeks and in under the nose and below the lips,
and finally to the chin and the throat;

and how, when done,
Pat raised the man up he'd laid down
with a smooth face now to match the shined shoes
and pressed jeans;

how each man frowned
and dug deep in his pocket for change,
then turned around and laid quarters and dimes on the shelf,
brought his face up close to the mirror,
made a quick inspection, rubbed his chin as in introspection,
slapped his old cap on,
and sent a quick nod in Pat's direction.

That was as close as they came to satisfaction
or as they could come
to experience in life resurrection.