Vanity Reflections

The razor was left to me by my late

Grandad—German steel, a muted brass band

Hugs the neck, inlaid ivory—its weight

Alone is satisfaction in the hand.

While eyes work well enough for judging gold,

Let hearts appraise what only hearts can hold.

Nicked again. Is nostalgia worth the 

     pain

Of blotting blood like ink fresh on 

     letters

Penned to the past, postmarked in 

     crimson stain?

Or does it tether with velvet fetters,

Shackling pensive men inside heart-

     shaped cells

Debauched on punch infused with 

     wistful spells?

If life is the sum of memories made,

And home the sum of those memories shared,

What becomes of both when memories fade

Like old photographs or stains washed and aired?

Holding things another held is keeping

Bound and dammed up memories from seeping

Out. I now know why grandad’s vanity

Held next to Barbasol a flask of rye.

His teetotaling Christianity

Blurred a bit when the aftershave ran dry

And forced his hand to resurrect the tin,

Cleanse his wounds and then whet his throat with sin.

If a nicked up face is the price to save

Just one memory, I’d bleed ev’ry shave.