The lather is too cool too soon. The weight
of blade draws nigh, begins its swathing scrape,
sweet tingling loss. The Gillette Corp. says men
shave 48 square inches 24 times,
and women, 412 square inches
11 times, each month, gardens where
we make time with our hands. Oooh, bare throat
and burning bush. Our silent crop of day,
a fine gray powder every dawn. A fright
of deep reflection shadowing the soul.
We work together well. We mug and make
those baby faces just to keep it light,
stave off the hobo’s seediness. We seek
to travel back to Smoothland, innocent,
before the itchy plague of hair and hide.
We pretend we don’t see the scary clown
who grins at us, the killjoy, Mr. Skull.