Poetry

The Mustache Will Stay

Why do I need to do this
I say to myself as I move the razor
over cheeks flecked with stubble,
my shallow neckbeard
evaporating under the heat of the blades.

I am not
“professional,”
nor do I see people
as often as I used to.
I run my fingers through longish
lank hair,
and I admit
I do look a little better
with a clean face.

And when I pull
my hair back a bit,
I see how a haircut would look,
and it’s not bad.
It fits
the standards of the day: short,
simple, and clean.

Okay, you got me:
I feel a little better
after cleaning up a bit.
I push myself into the outline they made.
My outside looks enough to fool them.
My thoughts, though … I won’t cut those to fit.

Standard