OH WELL, HE CUT IT SHAVING
Something like that my Father used
to say, nicked up and funny-looking
with small bits of Kleenex clinging
to blood on his face. That's what it
looked like to me anyway - carnage
with a lower-case 'c' at the bathroom
mirror, some white-faced soapy guy
all lathered over and then, with a razor,
bloodying himself up. Ever so slightly,
I mean; don't get me wrong it wasn't
as if he'd slit his throat. But, when
you're a boy at nine years old, it
all seems the same, or different by
degrees perhaps; the sorts of value
marks you haven't yet learned to
make. And who's to say there's a
bucket load of difference anyway :
between something that occurs,
and something that you'd only
maybe wished to happen?
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