Astute, hirsute

Bought my yearly can of Barbasol today

Last year’s canister had gone rusty on the bottom,
familiar rings staining the medicine cabinet shelf;
only half empty, it’s duty was fulfilled.

Not that there was a whole lot of heavy-lifting involved
on the part of the velvety foam of my youth

Thirty-five years of never being totally clean shaven, I am
not a boon to the fine Barbasol folks bottom-line

not at just a can-a-year of rugged yet minor every-other-day
touching up of solid jaw line, not- yet-jowly neck, round
upper cheeks, twice-weekly handsomeness-mandated,
sideburn squaring.

There is sentimental pause in my facial touching-up; for
Barbasol was what my perpetually clean shaven, incredulous
that I wasn’t, grandpa forever used.

Daily opening of my bathroom cabinet reminds me of the time
when I wished to finally be ‘man enough’ to need a can of
shaving cream of my own…long before masculine irony made
such longing moot.

Looking in the mirrored cabinet as I put the can away, thinking
that though I don’t need it today, I probably will tomorrow –
or possibly the day after – though I won’t need much; the
shaving cream and I have plenty of time to get acquainted.

The can knows when it’s time for it to go.

Bought my yearly can of Barbasol today, thought about Gramps.


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