Under the cold water
he slips his soiled hands
a shy bar of soap
assists but does not remove
the grime under his fingernails
why must life be so *****?
a malfunctioning bulb illuminates
on his reflection he reflects
eyes? alert
mouth? uncommonly voluptuous
nose? too large
but that is only a face
and we all have one of those
mostly
sweat, little rivu…lets
scamper down his fruzzled face
time for a shave soon
much misery behind those dark orbs
brains also
a faint scent of slow wood clings to his neck
was it a thousand years ago or
yesterday that she flung his jeans
and the mechanic’s shirt
with his name stitched over the left pocket
(spelled wrong, by the way)
in slow motion out the third story window
evicted him
and as he walked away smiling
a toothbrush clanked against his head