Peter Chapman Poetry

Close Shave

He was so old, thinking jumbled him up,
he preferred to think only when he could.

This morning, with the sun on the tiles
like little radio songs
he rinsed the fuzz from his razor
and ran a hand across his chin.

He smiled and felt his boney jaw,
looking into the failing glass. Everyone was gone.
He walked with a bend and his voice,
his sound of language, often needed adjusting.

Behavior of any sort
could be stricken with heartful sighs
whose gusts embarrassed him.

The shave made him smile.
How nice he felt now, shaved,
the smooth old skin like parchment
opened over a ruined field, with trumpets.

In the mirror, he read out his time,

put the razor away, took his shirt and went out.
He would read, and clear his voice, and attend
the nuance that glowed
like a kid
now making new and old friends.