Shear Terror.
I once knew a girl,
with a terrible terrible fear.
That whilst eating in good company,
the tines of two dining forks
might become hopelessly entangled
by an incompetent guest.
In the effort to extricate the two,
the grinding of steel prongs
would set her teeth on edge
and send her fleeing from the table.
A fear or flutes, beards and even knees
all have a name.
Even the terror that might swell
by the mere sight
of a belly button.
I shared with this girl my own strange terror.
Whilst at the barbers, I shiver in anticipation
that the tiny saddle of skin
the connects the top of my ear to my skull,
will become trapped
between the teeth
of the electric clippers.
A fear, so far,
unnamed.