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34 History We can talk of eras and epochs, But life smudges over easy margins, Blows down fences, confuses neat frontiers. We may witness sunsets and check our clocks, But authentic change is slow, and it spins So languidly we lose sight of the years. My barber is the last of a proud type. Sinatra grins on the wall. Sopranos Soar from the radio. He stocks Playboy. My barber, stooped, kindly, will never gripe. Men’s hair will thin and beards will grow. He knows A thousand jokes, and he fought on D-Day. He holds the worn rope’s end of times far gone, Frayed to a thread, weighted with songs, and wars we won. ...

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