Maintenance

I haven't seen this version of my jaw

since the weather turned.

The foam is thick, a chemical cloud

masking the man who stopped keeping track.

The blade is dull enough to tug,

dragging through a week of Tuesday's neglect.

The sink fills with a gray slurry—

short, stiff ghosts of my own face

swirling toward a drain that's tired of me.

I find the nick on the point of my chin.

One rust-colored dot on a square of paper,

a small, wet tax

for trying to look like I’m still here.