Glen Martin Fitch
(poem left below the bathroom mirror)
Such sharp and brittle fingers
comb my hair.
Within the narrows
of each pit the Speed Stick ™
leaves its scented spit.
I turn and stare.
“Behold a wet,
but lucky fool, indeed.'
Free of its cap,
fat in my palm,
I grip the toothpaste tube.
It gobs just with the stress
till with a squeeze
I take a drip.
fail to mold to my caress.
and yet again
I gently wipe stale foamy cream
that's seeped out of the spout.
And leaning in the mirror
fog I swipe
to see if kisses
show on lips I pout.
I'm off to work.
I have to fight the urge to crawl back.
Thank you for last night.
Glen Martin Fitch's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (GROOMING by Glen Martin Fitch )
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