Stuart Ross
Fathers Shave
Father shaves. Details follow.
The blade rips the bristles
from his cheeks, his chin,
beneath his thunderous
nose. It rips the carpet
and the curtains, rips
Sylvester the Cat
right off the TV screen.
We children cry.
The blade rips the welcome
mat off our porch, the
grass off our lawn,
the trees off our block,
oh weeping willows.
Father goes to the office.
His boss caresses
his smooth face. The
clients ooh and ahh.
The streets are bare
of cars. One planet
hurtles into another.
There are no prizes
in a bag of Cheezees,
but in Pink Elephant
Popcorn you get a
little sticker or maybe
a tiny soldier with a
parachute you can
drop out your second-
floor window. Look!
He drifts down.
He drifts in the breeze.
The jays and sparrows
gaze on in wonder.
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