Crooked Tooth Joy

Crooked Tooth Joy When I was young and hadn't a care, I once wished I had curly hair. But now I see what would've been misery for the valiant true who would've tried but failed to love me. At the crack of the clapper before I don the Sunday best, I run my fingers through the never-tresses. I have no know of the fancy man’s soul, but I've tasted the fear, that cold sweat, hardening the heart and splitting the soul of golden lads uncapped of spiral locks. Crooked teeth at least tear meat. So important ripping flesh from bone. And two eyes are oh so fine, but one'll do in a pinch. The curse of the curl, denied the affections of a homely girl, seeks the flaxen sanctuary. How fleeting the comforts of moment, half-lifing into delusion. Standing before the darkened mirror the gray is fair, the wisp a shock. Assuredly Luke and the locks are in collusion. Out the door and off to church, I welcome the morning light. Leave me the vices of tradition. The curly-haired damned? … the virtues of fashion. Time steals from everyone, but I had so little to lose.