Small Mercies Andrew Bebb



As the snow falls round my shoulders,
Eyes closed,
I sit in the Barber’s chair.
‘Round or square?’
Couldn’t really care
I never see it.
It’s other folk’s problem.

My eyebrows carefully shorn,
Even the ears' hairs.
Extra tip in order?
Bit easier now to face my face
As I shave.
Why not be vague
(and ask for Haig's)?

Small mercies.