Whose Hair Is This?

 

Let us play, “Whose hair is this?” she glared, strand in hand

May I daresay a fair young miss, who flares my candle man?

It seems it came from someone’s head that isn’t mine or yours

So how’d it get behind the bed, and on the bathroom floor?

 

I did not know your brows could arch with such endearing charm

But let’s not switch the horse and cart while clutching fear’s alarm

Before discarding babe with bath, my heart is true, my love is strong

For though I stroll a wandering path, it is with you that I belong.

 

Your slippery tongue is busy still—the query posed has not been answered

For lost among linguistic frills your theories flow like modern dancers

I know your moves, believe you me—you’re pleasant but no mystery

Have I not proven that I’d foresee this present from your history?

 

I see my neglecting unfiltered veracity

Has been now infecting with silvered mendacity

Though I’ve taken no liberties I’d not also grant,

I will take with humility the lash of your rant.

Say what you must.  I’ll meet your gaze, if now with sideways glances

Only asking you trust, My Sweet, one day, that loving is expansive.

 

You quake in your shoes and seem to believe this world of mine’s symbolical

Awake from your muse!  I mean to perceive the girl behind the follicle.

You straddle the fence and persist in dividing the pie according to you

Let down your defenses.  I wish to divine if I would like her too.