SONNY’S BADGE

He looks so familiar, the male hairdresser
with spiked hair and gold hooped earring,
was my thought while waiting for my wife
in the cramped waiting area by the reception desk.

I picked up a fashion magazine, on the cover
a wire-hanger super-model sashaying on the runway,
and as I peeked over Lady Anorexia, hoping
to place him, I heard a colleague call out his name.

Bingo! It was the scrappy neighborhood boy who
delivered knuckle sandwiches to kids on the block,
the name that bubbled curses up on mothers’ lips.
Now and then on Saturdays I’d see the dad he adored

dropping by in his pickup, sporting a camouflage tank
top and a bad-boy bandanna on his head, a lit cigarette
always bobbing in his lips as he unloaded hunting, fishing
and camping gear for his son’s wide-eyed perusal.

Not a case of misplaced typing, said my wife, he really
is gay by his own say-so. With this I tried to imagine wars
waged inside and out, dad’s disbelief, fiery recriminations,        
threats to disown come true – Sonny’s spunk prevailing.

I paid closer attention.  Yes, there was something about him
standing there, scissors and comb in hand, something settled,
even rooted, as if he’d doused all the hot embers heaped high
on his front porch and swept the smoking ashes into the grass.