Black and Bitter Navy Coffee

 

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.