Poem: Official Scent

According to its bottle
Old Spice is the official scent of confidence,
and it’s true-- it is a fine smell.
Fine enough to skip showers now and then
and wax on another layer instead.
You don’t even have to remove your shirt
just watch in the mirror while an arm disappears
then you’re ready to go.
And what a grace it is
to be spared the body’s flaws;
to abide more fully
in the abstract world
of clothes and artful swagger.
So what if after a few days your armpit
looks like Shelob’s Lair?
It’s a small price to pay
to see yourself without contradiction;
the body’s truths subjectified.
Each week though the day arrives
when not even Old Spice
can mask your Unofficial scent,
and though you divert suspicion
by standing near people
just a little shabbier than yourself
at day’s end you are inevitably left standing naked again,
shadowless before the bathroom mirror,
waiting for the glass to fog
so that you’ll know the shower is warm.