My Hair

My hair is like dog fur.
No one has ever told me this
but that’s my belief.
Right now my hair has grown out
and it is poofed like a burrito
of chicken feathers.
I’m a sort of head-bearded bird.
I believe there are slaughterhouses
designed to make
my death as efficient as possible.
I mean the death of my hair,
which is unbridled like
a Shepard’s love for metaphor.
My hair is a thatch of
mouse houses.
My mother and father agree
that I have a beautiful color to my hair.
It is varied and rich, mottled browns
and ribald reds.
My mastery of shitty description
is.
My hair like the lisp of a barber. Or
my hair like a British guitar.
My tuft like a rough flowered
broccoli.