Running Late

It seems as though he's running late
All else is going to have to wait
But it seems he has to shave
Not a task that he can waive
 
He lathers up before the mirror
Wipes off the steam until it's clear
Applies the blade with hurried wrath
Until he sees his lover in the bath
 
Her body glistening with soap
A shine that always gives him hope
Possibly a stroke of luck
Forget the time, he'll stay and fuck
 
His love rinses off the residue
Down the drain and right on cue
Enough to make a late man sigh
Watching his lover towel and dry
 
He takes her gently to the bed
His sense of time already fled
She reclines and parts her thighs
Insisting that his Rolex lies.