Black and Bitter Navy Coffee
by Mushroom Montoya
I sat in a barber’s chair.
The barber buzzing off my hair,
Removing my civilian status
On my first day in bootcamp.
I was not the only one, of course.
The barbers’ chairs were full
Of young men, boys, really,
All of us losing our identity.
Red, black, blond, and brown hair
Floated down from our heads,
Landing softly all around
Each black and chrome barber’s chair.
The barber next to me
Removed the black fabric drape
From the newly shorn recruit,
And left to take a break.
He came back to his station,
Holding two Styrofoam cups,
Filled to the brim
With hot black coffee.
He lifted my drape
Exposing my hand
And handed me
One of the Styrofoam cups.
“I don’t drink coffee,”
I complained to no avail.
“Yer in the Navy now.
That’s all they give us to drink.”
I hoped he was joking.
But I suspected he wasn’t.
He bellowed a command,
“Drink before it gets cold!
Don’t let it go to waste.
I’m doing ya a favor.
I made a fresh pot, myself,
So, drink up, it’s free.”
My own barber silenced his clippers
And accepted the other cup.
He took a sip before resuming removing my hair.
I took a sip out of the Styrofoam cup.
Fresh cut shards of hair,
Freed by the barber’s clippers,
Flung off my head,
Flew into my cup of coffee
That was mean and bitter
With no cream or sugar
To sweeten the insult
Of losing my identity.
“Drink up!” my own barber yelled.
As my own hair floated
Inside my Styrofoam cup
Of black and bitter Navy coffee.
