baboon river anthology?

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This has been festering in my head for a while.

THE OLD COLOSSUS

I met a human from a time-lost land
Who said: “A woman, bronze, with diadem
Sits broken, buried slantwise in the sand,
Her legs and trunk are gone: no sign of them.
A head remains, two shoulders, arm and hand,
A torch, long dead, and one piece yet beside,
A copper plaque in whose impassioned plea,
Corroded words bade weary travelers bide.
I traced their meaning; not an easy chore:
‘Give me your masses, yearning to breathe free…
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’
My horse browsed nigh; the witness to my yell:
You blew it up! Curse you forevermore!
Mad, hairless apes! God damn you all to hell!”
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Toon River Anthology continues

It's a long one this time!

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ALEXANDER BUMSTEAD

No disrespect to Dad, of course, but I never really understood

Why Mom insisted on combing my hair in just that particular way

With those little ‘dags’ always sticking out on the sides. 

The lookalike thing was fun when I was little, but as I grew up,

I wanted to be myself, to be my own man. I asked to change it

When I was sixteen, but she got around me just as easily

As she always got around him. The hair stayed as it was.

I even kept wearing those one-button shirts, just like his.

Years passed. After Dad died, I finally ventured out

And found a college 300 miles away — close enough

For visits, but far enough that I felt independent, able

To make my own decisions and, more importantly,

To make myself something other than a living memorial

To my father. The barber I chose said he’d never seen a cut like it.

I told him to take a picture, because it would soon be gone.

He trimmed it down into a generic cut that I picked

From the poster by his mirror. He chatted away as he cut.

I mumbled assent occasionally, thinking of my new, different life.

For me, the cut symbolized everything regrettable about Dad:

Eccentric, almost willfully so; sticking out inconveniently, 

Yet docile, deferential, even kind of dumb. I was done with it.

The barber brushed and patted and sprayed it with something,

And told me I looked great. In the mirror sat the new man,

Moving when I moved, standing when I stood, brow furrowing

At the exact moment that something looked unsettlingly familiar.

The shop faded away, leaving only me and the staring stranger.

I pushed my hair to the right. He pushed his to the left. I pushed mine back,

As did he. My heart thumped, and I wished I had a sandwich.

For no reason I know, I was holding the barber’s skinny comb.

My hand moved, held it under my nose, not unlike a mustache,

And I knew. I knew him then. I knew myself, and I knew why Mom

Spent all those mornings brushing and combing and spraying my hair

To avoid this moment: The man in the mirror could be none other

Than Mr. Woodley — Herb Woodley, from next door. Dad’s best friend

Who’d died in retirement, down in Florida. The resemblance was clear.

The intolerable moment passed. The barber was still talking. I settled and left.

For the next while, I kept to my room until it was long enough

To restore the way I’d always looked. Well, I stayed in college two years —

Enough to learn I was no office worker; I ended up becoming a mailman.

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