Proof of concept

The comb ran through the wet,

dark mass of it.

Felt a different resistance, then

saw it, stark and new, a white threat.

One thick wire, caught

on the bristle, stark against the dark.

Pulled it free, laid it on the sink's

white porcelain, a tiny, silver mark.

Proof of concept, time's slow drain,

a flag of surrender, come what may.

Not pulled, not hidden, just left to lie,

a forecast for another day.