Mr. Clean

I played Delilah
over the kitchen sink.
It seemed like a good
idea at the time,
as snip 
          snip
                 snip


I cut your flaxseed locks.
You looked like you had gotten
into a fight when I was done,
half your hair in angles
we swore were geometrically
impossible.


My Sampson, 
I took from you 
gnarly gold curls,
but nothing else.
Intact we sat in
dinette chairs,
our legs sticking
in the heat.


A humid silence,
your decapitated 
strands littering
the linoleum.


The next day,
we shaved your
head, it gleamed,
a strange daytime moon.
Your friends
call you Mr. Clean now.