Poem: Shave

Shave

By Byron Nalos, Nikiski

Shave.

The fiery tap-water steams.

I schlepp a towel across

the foggy bathroom mirror;

there’s that smug ol’ ghost again,

running a razor through his foamy face.

Outside there’s some snow.

The towel squeaks on the mirror.

The razor sounds like sandpaper.

Again the towel, again the razor.

In momentary glances

we are face to face,

and I ask that prankster

if he is trustworthy —

if he can take care of Her

and Our Family,

and I hold the razor

to his throat.