Shave

by Samuel De Lemos

I wake up
sit on my bed and wait,
until I feel the blood
rushes back
into my legs.

Building up
my confidence
I stand up straight.

I touch my face
and hear
the familiar
stubble-felt noise.

The sound of a
leaky faucet
systematically
drips, drip, drips.

I sight the
stainless steel razor,
morning beacon
draws me closer in.

Pristine white
shaving cream squirts
onto my cupped palm.

An aromatic cloud,
soft and weightless, I
rub against my
prickly mirrored face.

The cold razor presses against
my naked flesh
like a silent
lawnmower trimming
peppered blades,

following the
well-known route
my face is
finally soft
once again.
 

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