Hymn to the Comb-Over

How the thickest of them erupt just 
above the ear, cresting in waves so stiff 
no wind can move them. Let us praise them 
in all of their varieties, some skinny 
as the bands of headphones, some rising 
from a part that extends halfway around 
the head, others four or five strings 
stretched so taut the scalp resembles 
a musical instrument. Let us praise the sprays 
that hold them, and the combs that coax 
such abundance to the front of the head 
in the mirror, the combers entirely forget 
the back. And let us celebrate the combers, 
who address the old sorrow of time’s passing 
day after day, bringing out of the barrenness 
of mid-life this ridiculous and wonderful 
harvest, no wishful flag of hope, but, thick, 
or thin, the flag itself, unfurled for us all 
in subways, offices, and malls across America.