Manhood

When I was a boy, Dad said
"A real man is always clean-shaven.
Always."

Stoically, then, I faced mirrors
overseen by the waving antennae
of cockroaches far up the Nile,
as a temblor rattled the pipes in L.A.,
over a slimy green washbowl near Uxmal,
baby-faced always, sometimes bleeding.

It was in Denali,
moose turds underfoot,
rumors of a grizzly,
as I scraped barbed stubble
with hand soap,
a cup of cold water,
a fogged-up side-view mirror

that I noticed my travelling buddy,
joyously bearded David,
placidly eating breakfast
and laughing.

back to issue

Randy Minnich is a retired research chemist and chemistry professor. He now focuses on writing, environmental issues, and grandchildren. He is a member of the Squirrel Hill Poetry Workshop and has published two books, Wildness in a Small Place and Pavlov's Cats: Their Story. His poetry has appeared in Main Street Rag, Pearl, U.S. 1 Worksheets, Blueline, and other publications. He seems to be writing more about aging, these days, and suspects it's because his friends are getting old.