The Close Cut

The suit is stiff. I’ve forgotten how the knot

is supposed to sit against the throat.

I need to look like a man who hasn't lost,

a man who keeps the buttons on his coat.

Then I see it—a single, dark strand

coiled in the porcelain, near the drain.

You’ve been gone three weeks, but the sink

is still holding onto your name.

The blue plastic vibrates against the rim,

a dull, electric rattling in the quiet.

I scrape the foam away until I’m clean,

or close enough to keep the engine silent.