The Shaving Cream Factory

 

I was invited to tour the shaving cream factory

because of my uncle.

May he rest in peace.

Those shaving cream factory

explosions are more common

than you might think.

Before our group arrived at the factory

we met up with a crowd of refugees

from El Salvador and Nicaragua. 

They were held in a disorganized dusty camp

on the outskirts of town, where our

tour bus broke down.

The camp guards promised to fix

our bus; they invited us into the

compound for a shower and a hot meal.

But as we mingled with those unassuming refugees

we became more like them and they became

more like us, until there was no way

of telling us apart --

 so the guards refused to

let any of us out. They drove the tour bus

off a cliff.

Using a pencil, a windshield wiper blade, 

and a box of toothpicks, I eventually managed to 

dig a tunnel under the barbed wire --

which led straight down to a vast underground

kingdom of geode worshipers. 

We had no choice but to join them

in their unconventional religious ceremonies

until our paperwork went through.

The red tape took years, 

and by the time it arrived

I had married a local girl, and we 

were raising a family in the

geode faith.

 I myself eventually came to believe

in the power of geodes.

So I decided to stay.

Now I watch my family grow

like chalcedony crystals

from the Mendip Hills. 

 

Is it any wonder I love

the smell of shaving cream?