Under fluorescent flutter,
morning twists the H handle.
Waterdrops skitter downtile,
clear beneath the faucet fog,
pushing the facial froth diaspora
into pools about the ringlet chrome.
A traffic jam on basin white
hunting sleep below the drain.
Black bits slide on the porcelan,
shards of spineless dotted line
followed by shocking red splats,
a scarf of spinning tissue
and a ribbon of foul language.
About the Poem
This poem describes how getting up on the wrong side of the bed can put a man on the wrong footing with his razor.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished October 3, 1985.