An Ode To Shaving Foam

You sit there.
Curious Form,
Where did you come from?
I remember,
A feline finger stretching forth –
But there was an exertion of the will.
A definite exertion of the will.
A pressure applied.
And you were born.
There in the hollow of a misgiving palm.
Curious Form,
I wonder at you.
Your growth?
You bloomed, blossomed, ballooned with such speed.
– Almost silently –
(There was a hiss of expiration.)
Wondrous nativity!
You sprang forth like Sin.
You sit there.
Proud edifice of a quaking foundation.
August cloud
Scooped from some distant sky.
And still
There’s something of the wide cerulean about you.
Blanched caracol,
You seem to contain a promise.
But I do not understand you.
You draw me in.
And you draw me in
– still –
You sit
In my hand,
With nonchalant poise,
Treading water.
But there’s a definite weight.
Surely you are of substance.
You sit there.
And dare I frame your symmetry?
Cup you in this hand?
This hand
Of tall fingers looming.
They strike a pose of hunchbacked sentinels.
Arthritic claw!
Still –
It casts no shadow.
Nothing mars your beauty.
Yet I know,
or maybe feel,
that I could crush you.
At once,
Fell these lumbering trees.
Collapse this copsing dell.
Would you not die with these your trees?
But no.
You are newborn
And I will cradle you.
You sit there,
Faceted with such curious perfection.
And still you call me in.
Your voice,
The echo of a sound never heard.
A cloistered prayer.
And I would caress you.
With these same fingers
The frolicsome cowlick bending from your crown.
Tell me,
with whispered tones,
Does a lone cherub perch there?
On the end of that lolling lock?
Do his wings never tire?
And do you float by their fluttering?
Or surely you are a snowkissed shell.
Sent to me
With songs of a gentle sea.
But you sit there.
And still
You sit.
O you seem a stolid stone.
Is there nothing more?
Nothing more than this?
Than to enthral
And play silence like a virtuoso
Nectarine siren,
What secrets do you guard from me?
What privies keep?
What life?
And how?
Though I know it now.
It was I who summoned you.
I no longer doubt my paternity.
Your life lies
In my own palmistry.
You sit there
Silent still
A tuneless whorl
Lipped by every man.
You are bought at a low price.
Who has not dallied with you?
Who not dandled you jauntily in his palm?
How easily you give yourself away.
And they so coarse.
With no ceremony to draw you near,
Quickly you yield all,
And smother their faces with your glozing kisses.
O you are a veteran Mona Lisa.
You know to sit with demure pose and emollient smile,
Then stem the crimson flow with your
But o, ’tis an oozy, sticky salve!
You sit there.
Cold form.
Well, have you eyes to see?
Then see!
This font would’ve been for our joint baptism.
But ablution turns to drowning.
I shall palm you.
Maybe you’ll think it a final reverence.
These once-sheltering boughs low-bowing.
They do not like their mission.
And silence resounds the valley round.
But it is done and I must see.
Unfurl these fingers like a new flower.
Dirty Thumbelina,
You lay there, bespread.
The very picture of devastation.
Foul mortality!
You are the bathos of a fallen notion.
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