Close Shave



He was so old, thinking jumbled him up,
he preferred to think only when he could.

This morning, with the sun on the tiles
like little radio songs 
he rinsed the fuzz from his razor 
and ran a hand across his chin.

He smiled and felt his boney jaw, 
looking into the failing glass.  Everyone was gone.
He walked with a bend and his voice,
his sound of language, often needed adjusting.

Behavior of any sort 
could be stricken with heartful sighs 
whose gusts embarrassed him.

The shave made him smile.  
How nice he felt now, shaved,
the smooth old skin like parchment
opened over a ruined field, with trumpets.  

In the mirror, he read out his time,

put the razor away, took his shirt and went out.
He would read, and clear his voice, and attend 
the nuance that glowed 
like a kid 
now making new and old friends.




© Copyright 2004 Peter Chapman

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