(This is a found poem, one in which snippets from others sources, in this case a newspaper, are juxtaposed to create a poem. The best-known examples are by Annie Dillard.)
This column is dedicated to the professional hairstylists of
The sad tale begins.
I wasn’t concerned.
On New Year’s Day, Debbie discovered a lump in her breast.
On Saturday, the woman was walking, talking, laughing.
More than 300 Baptist students wore 50s style clothes
and ate root beer floats delivered to them
by parents on roller skates.
What’s going on?
It’s your call.
Dark sunglasses are good.
A standing-room-only crowd responded to the symphony.
“This is what we work for,” he said.
“To have an overflow crowd, and I think we have it.”
Then, contemplating the box of hair color,
I remembered I’d been damaging my hair.
The moral of this story:
when it comes to your roots,
trust only the experts.
Signs have been posted
encouraging area residents
who witness littering
to report the incident.
Personalities are cloaked in closets.
I think about tales I hear from a co-worker.
I think of my daughter’s closet.