Disposable

The sink is a basin of yellowing grit,

and the fluorescent bulb has a flickering fit.

I’m lathering up with a soap that smells sweet,

while the trucks on the highway are pounding the heat.

This blue plastic edge is a dull, jagged bite,

and I’m scraping the shadow I missed in the light.

The skin on my jawline is starting to burn,

as the soap disappears in a watery churn.

One slip of the wrist and the stinging begins,

a penalty paid for my bathroom-sink sins.

I watch as the red starts to flower and spread,

near a damp paper towel and a thin, cotton thread.