Thinned out after all these years, it stands
straight up when I remove my stocking cap.
“Look!” says my wife. My granddaughters laugh,
trying with their little hands to pat it down.
It bounces back, a spring ready for action,
too alert for its own good.
It’s a lawn growing in fast motion,
a jungle canopy spread across my scalp.
Never bored, it always has something planned,
a surprise to embarrass me –
forms a picket fence above my forehead,
tangles like Medusa’s drunken cousin in the rain.
I threaten it with shears and goo,
but in midnight quiet I hear it laughing
to itself, wicked gnome bereft of conscience or regret.