He’d Named His Hairdo Ruth

Few dare to praise his hair.

It isn’t that he doesn’t care.

He cares, it can be said,

more than a little that nobody

gives a jot or tittle for the effort

and the art it took him

to construct the sneaky part

he’s combed into the back –

to raise a certain curtain

on a metaphor for splitting hairs

in service of – alas, alack! –

perverse misreadings of

the Cosmic Law. His hair

is a defense against this heresy:

a headlong vault into awakening

whatever passersby might be

induced to notice its implied

assault on immorality:

on the gestalt the current

zeitgeist thinks is truth.

He’d named his hairdo Ruth.

.