late afternoon

by Robin Keehn

May I talk to you?

About the girl we met 

today on our walk?

You know,

the one who remarked

that you reminded her

of her long line of beloved 

hamsters?

You heard her say 

you were cute, heard 

her ask your age

before she pointed 

to your grey face

to the grey

taking over your head,

creeping down your back,

scattering across your chest.

No doubt

you heard her say

that eventually grey 

will take over your 

entire body

like it did her hamsters,

all of them,

who started going grey

and suddenly turned all 

grey right before

they died.

Did it bother you at all

that she gave out this information

with a lilt, a toss of her 

13-year-old head,

her cherry red hair

shimmering like a halo, 

before she skipped 

away down the street?

When I looked down at you

and you up at me,

I swear I could 

see you turn away,

hear you whisper something

about the grey at 

my temples,

the streaks (what I like to

call highlights) 

that seem to be infiltrating 

my head.

I know you wanted to say 

that I do not remind you 

of any hamster you have ever seen,

certainly not one 

stuck in a dumb cage

on a dumb wheel, owned by a dumb 

red-headed girl.

No, you wanted to say

that I have many, many 

more walks ahead of me,

many, many more

poems to write.   

Robin Keehn is a writer living in Encinitas, California.