the shaving mirror

you saw

your father do it first,

standing at the bathroom sink,

the mirror fogged

then wiped with

the ball of his fist,

the shaking of the can

before

the lather came out

and was pushed upon his

cheeks, spread

under his nose,

to his chin and ears,

his neck,

and then the slow drag

of a razor,

up and down, across the

softened bristles

of his face.

you saw him do this a hundred

times,

at least.

and now

your son watches you,

standing at your knees.