Sallee's Sallon
by Robert L. Dean, Jr.

It’s probably been right there since before the creation
of blow dryers, cuticle nippers, hydrogen peroxide, but,
for reasons known only by that big Max Factor in the sky,
my eyes have just now been opened, a while-supplies-last
Sodom-and-Gomorrah-days redemption sale, as I, Lot-like,
flee, reluctantly as always, the fleshpots and the pleasure palaces
of the city.

Probably been right there on the south side of the highway
every god-damned time, coming and going,
wedged between the rusted hulks of Junior’s Discount Autos
and the bare-ass-naked windbreak straining to
break wind over a field of porcelain toilets.

Been right there a thousand yards before
the stop sign at the cross roads where
not even the devil shows at midnight,
this cracker-box shrine to pioneer womanhood
and the rustifi-deification of the English language:
Sallee’s Sallon
And Beatification Emporium,
peeling paint like dandruff on one hell of a bad hair day.

Right smack-dab there since darkness moved
upon the face of the waters, every kind of beast
was pronounced good, the dust of the earth took form,
inhaled, strode naked and erect through the garden,
causing Lilith to pull at her tangled mane,
scowl into the mirror,
and plot how to steal the only game in town
back from that upstart rib-bone bitch.

Whereupon Sallee said, “Well hun, let’s see now. How ‘bout—
a drop dead pixie, deep side part, caramel highlights, glitter nails…”

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