The hair problem

In oscillating
between the
afterglow of dusk
and the afternoon
left behind, the girl
on the swing told me
that we were like
random lengths
of falling hair. Each
littered on beds and dirt
and plastic bags.
Each different as they fall.
I watched her being
consumed, disappearing,
and turning red.
Closing eyes saying
Humanity should have
been a flimsy comb-over.
The last flailing hair
are better remembered.