A Blind Man's Shave
Watching him before the mirror,
a week after his fatherīs death,
you canīt help noticing
how little attention he pays
to the contours of his face
as he shaves like a blind man
nicking and slicing
until the white foam
is speckled with red.
Itīs not great violence
he inflicts upon himself.
Nothing like leukemia.
Nothing compared to what cancer did
to the man he idolized.
You prefer the smooth, close shave
that you can run your hands across
and feel no stubble.
But youīre prepared to love a bleeding man.
"I didnīt know you were there."
he says, when heīs finally done.
But his chin is intact.
So at least he knows you are not dead.