I shaved a dead man today, my second in seven years. I remember the first time, close to seven years ago, because I wrote about it.

I searched through all of my old blogs just now – time capsules into days I thought lost – but I can’t find the piece. This both frustrates and challenges me; I know it is somewhere, if not deep in my mind. I want it back, I want to compare my thoughts then, to my thoughts now.

Today, as a man’s life ended while I shaved his face, I thought about brunch, and art fairs, and all the things most twenty-somethings were up to this muggy Saturday. How vast life’s chasms are.

I’ll let the poem I jotted on my lunch break speak:

Let’s Do Brunch

I pedal home for lunch and
think about his yellow-dead lips,
and wish she was
just my friend,
and we were
just drunk by two,
caught in this first warm rain.