by Glen Martin Fitch
(poem left above the bathroom sink)
Such sharp and brittle fingers
comb my hair.
Within the narrows
of each pit the Speed Stick ™
leaves its scented spit.
I turn and stare.
“Behold a wet,
but lucky fool, indeed."
Free of its cap,
fat in my palm,
I grip the toothpaste tube.
It gobs just with the stress
till with a squeeze
it spurts.
I take a drip.
The bristles
fail to mold to my caress.
I've shaved
and yet again
I gently wipe stale foamy cream
that's seeped out of the spout.
And leaning in the mirror
the fog I swipe
to see if kisses
show on lips I pout.
I'm off to work.
You sleep.
I have to fight the urge to crawl back.
Thank you for last night.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011