ANDY ROBERTS

Juarez Haircut 1969

We crossed the river from El Paso
to a street carnival of kids
hawking newspapers, chiclets, coffee mugs, belts.
Mom got a poncho. Dad got a jack knife.           
I got a red vinyl wallet
with white vinyl stitching.
 
They decided it would be fun
for me to get a haircut.
A boy my age mopped the floor,
moving slowly. I listened to the
water drip from the wringer,
snip of the scissors as the barber worked.
He dipped his comb in the
mop bucket water to part my hair,
and Dad gave him fifty cents.
 
They decided it was time to eat.
Dad thought the salsa was soup,
sweating, spooning it in,
until the waiter rushed out.
Three pitchers of margaritas later,
Mom wobbled down the sidewalk
in poncho and high heels,
Dad playing slap and tickle,
my slicked down hair drying
in the hot Juarez sun. 

Andy Roberts is a poet in Ohio.