Stuart Ross

Pages: 1 2 3 4

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.


Pages: 1 2 3 4

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