Shave
By Byron Nalos, Nikiski
Shave.
The fiery tap-water steams.
I schlepp a towel across
the foggy bathroom mirror;
there’s that smug ol’ ghost again,
running a razor through his foamy face.
Outside there’s some snow.
The towel squeaks on the mirror.
The razor sounds like sandpaper.
Again the towel, again the razor.
In momentary glances
we are face to face,
and I ask that prankster
if he is trustworthy —
if he can take care of Her
and Our Family,
and I hold the razor
to his throat.