Robert Fillman

Going Bald

I hate my head. I’m always

covering it the same way

I pretend that I don’t have

opinions with my friends.

They never even wonder,

I’m sure, what lies beneath that

natural-looking piece of

agreement I carry off

so well. It’s the way they stare

at my skull that gives me pause,

as if they know all of me

in an instant. My daughter

jokingly says I look like

a naked mole-rat. She sends

pics from her phone, my baldness

now a laugh between father

and child. I love that about

her, how she says whatever

is on her mind. And she’s got

a beautiful head of hair.

 

The Count

The nurse clapped a container

on the counter, yanked open

a drawer, then the cupboard

where they stashed the magazines

and movies, all those glossy

picture spreads and DVDs,

with names like Playboy and Jugs

and Hustler. All I could do

was nod my head and listen

to her simple instructions,

unswallow the Yes, okay,

that had been stuck in my jaw

as she was telling me: screw

the cap on tight and then leave

the sample inside the small

metal cubby, that she’d be

right outside the door if I

needed anything, to come

out after I had finished.

But when that awkward moment

arrived, I was so red-faced

I shot past her desk without

looking up. And on my way

to the car I played over

and over all the scenes from

my own fumbling life, the ones

that ended shamefully, like

this anticlimax, ones that

should be marked with a red X,

the ones that don't stop tugging

in the bathroom of my mind

even when the cup’s half full

and I’ve nothing left to give.