My dad used to take two cups int front room

and set them out ont mantelpiece, in his vest

or shirtless. There wor our mirror, good light.

One, orange plastic, t’other a broke handled mug.

 

And I can see him now, fingers spreading

white Gillette and yer broken handled mug

ud be for warm watter, plastic orange one

ud have boiling watter in, red hot. My dad

 

would shave int front room in his vest, transform.

It was best mirror in our house, a darts prize.

Where has my sense of this tradition gone?

Bathroom hider, with my mirror ont cupboard door,

 

single mixer basin lever and our bijou bowl.

Why don’t I prowl our house with his dominion?

I can still hear it, the frisk, yer quick noise of razor

hitting plastic cup, tuckh, tuckh, tuckh, tuckh.