faire table rase

like red whiskers
in a sink
she lingers
until she goes
unnoticed
dizzy
in the scent
of the memory
of her perfection
he clings
like a child
to his mother
to olden days
depending on a love
forged in willful blindness
to almost everything
come to think of it
foam around
his tired face
sweeps the blade
sideburn down to chin
mirror serves him
and forsakes him
all in an instant
there is a way
to the light
in all likelihood
but he just can’t stop
looking in the mirror
rehearsing for a scene
in which he finds the light
in the green eyes
of a different woman
in a different place
a different mirror
under which lies
a different sink
red whiskers
noticed
and the sound
of laughter