Walls
Poetry
A middle aged man is standing in front of the mirror in his second wife's bathroom.
Second wife.
No, third.
Yes, definitely third.
And her name is Sharry.
Or no, maybe it's Samantha.
Because Sharry was his first wife.
It's four-thirty-six am on a Tuesday and he has to catch the six am bus for work at seven thirty am.
He's saving his face the same way he has since he was sixteen.
Or seventeen.
No, definitely sixteen.
Because by seventeen his shaving method was daily practice.
But he's not looking in the mirror.
He's looking at the corner where the wall meets the other wall.
And the walls are blue.
They're blue.
Light-blue.
Almost-white-blue.
And the paint is old.
It's old.
Ten-years-and-two-wifes-ago- old.
And He's looking at the corner where the wall meets the other wall.
And in some spots it's stained.
Lightly stained.
Stained from bleach, and toothpaste, and aftershave, and peroxide.
And he's looking at the corner where the wall meets the other wall.
And he's not looking in the mirror.
And he cuts himself shaving.