I reached a point
where I could not trust my hand
to bring a razor to my face.
Fortunately the beard that
emerged helped me better than any
doctor or medication or milieu staff.
Every strand had a goal it reached
with unrepentant precision.
They scraped away plaque and tartar,
drained pimples, filled pockmarks,
buffed out a couple astigmatisms,
cracked through deep wax deposits,
activated serotonin transmission.
I had never felt so happy and
so calm yet full of energy.
Until my boss told me to shave
as the waitresses were tired of
passing a cryptid every time
they had to use the facilities.
Smiling I left my apron
on his desk, my car in the lot, and
my clothes in the dumpster at the edge of the woods.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 53 | Spring/Summer 2019