Rise

I shake my can of shaving cream each morning

at least ten times, turning it upside down

for seven shakes. It's not so much the warning

on the can that makes me shake as the sound

of foam gushing out. Will this be the day

it sputters, turns gruel, and runs through my hand?

Shaking well gives me a moment's stay.

And though I can't see through the can

and don't understand much of aerosols,

I turn the hot on full, let the steam rise,

and him, the worrier in the mist, I surprise

with a wet bouquet, laughing, as the splendour falls

across the glass and the blade begins its run,

and I leave the water running when I'm done.

                                                         DL