Beach combing

This small shell

Washed by waves 

That ebb and roll in timed rotation

Wearing away ridges

Smoothing sharp angles

This delicate fan

Half buried under grainy sand

Fits tight in my palm

Leaving the echo of salt on skin

And sunbaked afternoons

Barber shop chorus

The barbers has a rhythm all its own

Muted news, soft soul tunes 

  clipper hum 

and faint scratch of razor on strop

This  emporium of masculine grooming

tolerates my presence as I sit 

enfolded in soft leather sofa

breathing in sandalwood and eucalyptus