IN THE MIRROR I am counting my rages from this life and adding them to what life was like before I would stand at this mirror and decide who I was. It’s clearer at times as I put the razor to my throat and look beyond the window and see clouds puffy and white halt then float across blue skies. I long for rest after a long night shift. I think of Henry Aaron and his number of struggles. At best I have none compared to his. The letters of hate he received would have sent others packing. The thought shivers me. I slide the razor toward my jaw line and look up at the cracked ceiling and wonder when will it fall in? These things are important I realize, but the lines on my face and about my eyes are a result of nothing but age. How could I have arrived here with such minute strugle? I think of Lincoln and his famous failures - so much so that any other man would have quit. I think of John Berryman and how his failires forced him to jump off a bridge. I think of Judas’ failure for silver. I think of Walt Whitman and his never ending Song. I think of William Golding: seventeen rejections of his master piece. I bring the razor to my lips and hold my nose up for a final sweep. A bold move so early in the morning. I think of Malcom X and his conversion. I think of Augustine and rejoice in his great mind. The last Classical man on Earth. I rinse the razor and wash my face. Pad it dry. I look in the mirror, ponder through again and again, “Man, who are you?”
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View more poems by Tim Gavin - Pisces.