Burma Shave Poem by David Watts

Burma Shave

Crescent of soap
in the dish, absence
where the brushstrokes
brushed, weeks
like that, and then my wife brings
this new cake—Burma Shave,
new lather, old idea,
the way road signs
could be broken
into chains of small
crosses,
aphorisms that went down
in pieces,
a barber who
could make his tie wiggle,
eyes go wall-eyed—little tricks
derived from enough time
and resource to entertain,
facials, boot black,
something of color
in a bottle that splashed
when you shook it,
orange blossom, rose
water, the men
in their shirts, their short
hair, characters
who wouldn't know
the play had finished its run
but for this new cake
in my dish,
its aroma, its texture,
its name against my skin.