Old Spice (the first poem I ever wrote)

It’s the simple things that remind you who you are;

    those little things that remind you of childhood.

It’s steam rising from shower curtains, cold air cutting with a misty breeze.

    It’s stepping out and drying off, then making way to the counter.

It’s grabbing the bristles, and adding the cream, gently lathering away, with

scent rising - that scent that’s like a barbershop - at the same time spicy, woody,

    and a little bit ashy.

Then throwing warm water to the face, livening two days growth, and applying the brush,

softly rubbing the bristle round and round, until slickness and thickness are achieved.

And then, when you’re ready, you take the sword.

    The blade is sharp and precise,

and you control it like a fine needle, threading it with small, calculated strokes, and make your

way down the face.

And then its re lathering and repeating the process again. Maybe against the grain. Maybe across it.

Your father used to do it. As did his father.

    And when you do it, it's flashing back to when you were little,

when you used to watch him do it. When he would hand you a razor and gently apply a little cream

to your face. He’d get something for you to stand on so you could see the mirror. And you’d

act like a little man, doing what seemed to echo down the chambers of history, uniting all men

like fire lighting a cave.

    When it’s done, and blood hasn’t been spilt, its clean and soft, like freshly grown leaves

on a tree after a dark and cold winter. You wipe away what's left, and open up the bottle of old spice, take a deep breath, and picture your father. It burns for a minute but leaves you refreshed.