I removed my towel
and wiped away the fog
to check the progress of lines
on my newly shaven face,

but things turned metaphysical
and I asked why I should care
that the left side has dropped
more than the right.

This body is not me, after all –
just a temporary shell
from which the real me
will one day eject

like a pilot from a crashing jet.
I should be more alarmed
over where I might land
than I am about this etching.

Then I came to my senses,
lovingly placed three fingers
on my left cheekbone,
and gently pulled back the skin.

That’s better, I said.