Ode to Burma Shave
by Cheryl Miller

Hail, all foaming encomium
to that first brushless shaving cream
and to all those unknown versifiers
who massaged the thrill of learning to read
and to those red and weathered signs
rising above Queen Anne’s Lace
nodding along two-lane highways,
signs steeped in scents of earth
and field corn,
signs meadowlarks praised from telephone wires
cresting into breakers of blue glass atop pitted poles
cattle crossing
means go slow
that old bull
is some
cow’s beau
Burma Shave
and to all dads who loved enough to take note,
slow down, intone those inceptive words
– some in French, no less –
at the side of the road to poetry



 

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