Adam had his father’s face.
Telemachus had his father’s bow.
And the sons of lost soldiers
have a German pistol
or a Japanese sword,
the sterner stuff
the old man was made of.

But all I have
from the last days of my dad
is his electric shaver,
egg-sleek, heavy
as a grenade,
with a thick black cord
and a gold Norelco
fading and nearly gone.

Sometimes I plug it in, click
the heavy switch to On.

As a younger man
he loved to watch me
watch him in the mirror,
straight razor,
brush and lather,
the four-foot leather strop.

But near the end, the DT’s
made the lean blade dangerous.
I press the shaver to my cheek
and feel its cold mouth tremble
like his goodnight kiss.