Treasure Island

Glen Martin Fitch


GROOMING


(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
it spurts.
I take a drip.
The bristles
fail to mold to my caress.
I've shaved
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.
You sleep.
I have to fight the urge to crawl back.
Thank you for last night.

Submitted: Thursday, October 17, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, October 23, 2013

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