At first it was the way he tugged at his beard
side-show, freakishly hard that made me watch.
He strokes and pulls until he singles
out one long hair then casually twists it
between his thumb nail and first-finger
like a small bar-straw toyed with nervously.
A short pluck later the follicle trophy is
displayed like a fat late-summer grasshopper
by its back wings and kicking like hell,
in the face of the accuser at nose length,
with bushels of protest and wrist swatting.
Triumphantly, he waves his tar-black ropy prize
at arms length, for all to see, awe and validate;
then gingerly places it lengthwise on the bar,
as if it were a one of a kind, and not daily growth.
He struck a Strike-Anywhere on his bar stool
and slowly made for the hair, nine inches long
and wiry like a work horse shaking away flies.
Before the match tip touched, it caught like a fuse.
Reaching for the other men's fives and tens
he comments, "I put black powder in my eggs
every morning. Tastes better than pepper."
I wanted to ask him, what his toenails did.
But, didn't. That was my first and last visit
to the Highway Sixty-Five Bar-Grill and Truckwash.