In the bathroom at work
cheap dime-store razor
blunt as a wood-axe
plowing my beard
of coarse Sicilian hair,
a surprising amount gray.

Men from other offices
wandering through, eyes
that click judgment
while they wring their paws
under a tepid sink:
well, *******, I think,
who's holding the razor?

Maybe they object
to the blood that spots
the buff-colored basin,
though I'm careful
to push it down the drain,
streaking the porcelain
like a peppermint candy.

Captive of the mirror,
prisoner of myself,
radiant with anger,
razor in my pocket,
blood on my face.