Stay on Your Guard

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STAY ON YOUR GUARD


He worked as if each hair mattered, 

as if it didn’t matter that I had to be 


somewhere by five, which I let slide 

somewhere around the right ear. Right here, 


he explained, is the lost art of the part, 

though we didn’t part for forty minutes


yet, his fingers in no hurry to measure

length, width, and breadth. What is a look,


a life, but the thick mound of thin decisions 

made at the end of a pruning knife?


In some trades it's wiser not to rush.

And then around the side-burns the razor


slipped. Shit. Give us this day our daily

grip, because lord, how quickly it can go


from here to there, how sickeningly

swift—regardless the furrowed brow,


how meticulous till now—it can all

be laid bare.


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