the shave

as men
we go to the mirror
and frost our face with
cream.
we ponder the old
soul
that we are staring back
in the mirror with
our father's eyes,
our mother's grin.
we take the razor and pull
at what grows,
what thickens
on our cheeks, below
our ears,
our chins.
it is a ritual we obey
daily.
cold water
onto the clean up
then
a blue bright lotion
as clear
as the bermuda shore,
slapped with
a waking sting,
and we
begin our
day again.