Xyrophobic Me

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My beard is a haven for battered children.
They hide in the hairs when things get scary.

My beard once lectured on the dangers of drugs.
It wore a checkered tie and pounded the podium with knotty fists.
The audience sat up in their chairs.
Men fidgeted.
Women sighed.

In the summer, beads of sweat evaporate from my beard, keeping my skin cool.
In the winter, when it snows, my beard becomes white, and keeps my face warm.
It calls itself “White Beard the Pirate” then, and we wrestle for my coat.
My beard is stronger than me, and always wins.

My beard sings love songs to lonely women, and makes its own wine called “Follicle Blush.”
It’s a merlot.

My beard helps the old carry their groceries.
It was the 2002 Bagging Champion in Des Moines, Iowa, beating out 4-time Champion Bobby Freckles.
They remain good friends, and go camping once a year in Montana.

My beard reads Black Elk, and has great reverence for Native Americans.
My beard is 2/3 Cherokee.

My beard practices elder worship, and participates in sweat lodges.
It once chanted for 24 hours straight, and had visions of war-worn Tuscans.

My beard is an avid firewalker, singed and beautiful.

My beard once built a boat, then went for a paddle.
It met a baby turtle out on a sandbar.
They splashed and laughed until pink twilight.

My beard knew your beard when it was only a whisker.
My beard always knew your beard would grow to be complicated, but my beard tries not to be judgmental.

My beard is not interested in games.
My beard keeps it simple.
At least it tries to.

My beard believes there is room for everything, even pomegranates.
And hatred, but only for the contrast.

My beard is liberal conservative, and votes regularly in local elections.
My beard coined the term “Hanging Chad,” although was never given proper credit.

If you shit talk my beard, it will punch you on the nose, hard.

My beard once fought off two thugs that were trying to rape a woman.
The woman now lives with my beard, timid and clutching.
The thugs scratch on institutional stone, and remember.

My beard has a spine.

My beard gives great hugs.
My beard gives wiry kisses.

Kiss my beard.
It will kiss you back.

My beard tried to chew gum.
Once.

My beard wants you to feel safe.

My beard fills its days well.

In the morning, my beard eats a light breakfast: tea, milk, and a slice of wheat toast.

At night, my beard goes to bed, and tells stories to all the bruised children.
It combs their hair with its hair until they fall asleep.