Morning Rite

John G. Young

Dream buzz sounds wake me

from my bed.

I stumble to the head

staccato cold

to greet the stubble-masked stranger

in the glass.

Splash of soap and water--

the baptism/battle begins.

My hollow throw-away rasps

as I find myself

peeling off suds

which overflow my hand

like a too full glass of beer.

From ear to chin to tender neck

the blade has its way--

Finally I leave,

slapped, stinging,

amid a cacophony of smells

with bloodstained surrender flags

across the field,

face-marks of the morning's crusade,

ritual bloodletting of a brand new blade.