My brother and I take turns shaving dad's
Face. We're terrified we'll cut him; his blood's
Thinner than the soup at this place.
I'm more confident with his left cheek,
My brother with his right, and as we work he teases
I knew there was some purpose for left-handers in this
world.
Watch out, I say, or I'll let the night nurse do this,
And he gives my brother a wink. His wife
And his sons are like bulldogs on
A meat wagon, he tells the nurses: even
After he is dead, we won't let go.