SHAVING

For sixty years and more I’ve started the day
Facing a mirror, razor in hand, teasing
My beard to stay hidden; only a few off-seasons
Have varied the pattern when through some getaway

Hiking or biking trips I’ve let the chin
Alone and with some macho pride have braved
The developing beaver. Now my grandson shaves.
The years incredibly pass, a peregine

Parade. As Horace says, they totter and fall.
Hirsuteness changes color but doesn’t flag.
Only the crown is thinning. Meanwhile the sagging
Chops, the eyes adroop, no more [appall]

The glass. The face with cruel accuracy
Enacts the calendar voracity.

(75, January 2, 1993)

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