The Shave

i had a proper shave this morning

took off my moustache and goatee

now all my discarded whiskers

gather, as if mourning

as if forming

a sporadic pattern

around the plughole in the sink

i look up trying to see

through the film of moisture

obscuring my reflection

who is this ragged stranger

this red cheeked impostor

pretending to look like me

starring at me from my mirror

it used to be me standing here/there

wiping the condensation from the glass

to check out the clean of the cut

i don’t know this bloke looking at me

he seems, i sense;

something somehow familiar

not entirely dismissed or dissimilar

the skin of my face

is so soft to touch for now

i can see my chin again

i can blow air from my mouth

over my bottom lip

straight up my nostrils

if i want

i slowly begin to recognise

the man that stands before me

he was here before me

this man will stand here after me

the ghosts of my former selves

jostle in the mirror

jostle with parts of me

and parts of home

he is what we are plus me

complete and whole

parts of me

for all to see

the facial scar

i tried to hide

a part of me

and now it is

minus all that

morose and rejected

ex-facial hair