Down the Drain

Shaving kit passed down
to me years ago. Small cup,
a blue stagecoach embossed.
Broken plastic case held together
by a dried cracked rubber band
doubled down. Inside, a sculptural
Gillette razor, the kind that gives
both sides of the sliver of blade.
The old fashioned kind.

On day one of the new year
I thought I was ready. Headed
into thirty eight over

twenty years of practice.

Enough of man now
kicking screaming cursing
slicing bleeding bruising
trying and failing along the way.

I replaced the blade, surprised
at how thin it was for all the damage
it could do—has done. First strokes
removed three days growth, tracing
down the muscles and veins.
Working my way to the center
the first nick, just to the left and
below that bulbous growth of bone.

I decided to cut my losses.

The right side suffered the same.

One vertical stroke. Clear. Rinse/Repeat.
Second stroke. Clear.
Third. Nick. Wash the blood and foam away.

Can’t remember grandpa ever having
this much trouble. Maybe he just hid it well.

Shaving is as much technique and patience
as pretending to know what you’re doing
and being able to cover your mistakes.

Nostalgia is a bloody bitch.

1/1/11