He won't comb his hair
unless I remind him.
It's important, I say.
Oh, come on, he says.
He doesn't see a mess, doesn't register
his sparse white hair standing up,
going every which way.
Unable to resist, I smooth his forehead,
attempt to arrange the thin tendrils of bed-hair,
grooming him the way some animals groom
each other: chimpanzees, cheetahs, those horses
we saw in the meadow, neck to neck, nuzzling.
Only he resists
and I offer the comb, asking him
to run it through his hair.
For your wife, I want to say,
so I can look at you
and see my handsome husband,
not this confused old gentleman
who doesn't give a damn.
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