His Morning Ritual
I remember him best
in those early hours
rising with the sun
as if disturbed from his slumber
abruptly rooted from his place of rest
while the house slept.
All but me
alone in my single cot
listening to the first sounds of day
and he, ever persistent
a clockwork man, rising
just before the neighbours cock.
How he rumbled urgently
down the thirteen steps of the stairs
with a cough and a grunt he started
reaching for his razor.
Into the wash basin
busily through the soap suds
with his badger hair brush
his mouth held in an awkward hush.
His frozen stern face
as he scraped away the memory
the burden, of yesterday
with skill and grace
his concentrated frown
lost in the silence.
Rising with a cold flush
having bargained with the mirror
a younger man now looking back
with a new day laid out before him.
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