I cut the hair of boys
going off to war
It was an urgent matter,
their hair in the late ‘60’s,
not to be yielded up to some
militaristic, crazed barber
I cut the hair of unlucky
draft card holders
So on my asphalt driveway
of a track house in Anaheim,
one of the L-shaped
models built so prolifically
in those heydays,
I cut the hair of political
naiveté
Chopped it all off as
a sacred act Saved
them from the dishonor
of being whacked
by the Establishment
I cut the hair of memories
curtailed
Trimmed from their
birthright to surf and
sun and study and scheme–
it was the honorable thing
to do
I cut the hair of sons
of sad mothers
If only I had saved some of it,
a few locks of remembrance
Some of them, blond
stubble-headed, did not
return
I cut the hair of war
killing boys