How long it lasts, his gazing in the glass,
…..Before his parents stir behind their door,
Before he hears the furnace light its gas
…..And warm the tile of the bathroom floor,
He cannot say, so rapt is he to see
…..The darkening hairs that shade above his lip,
…..To comb them back with thumb and finger tip
And marvel at becoming come to be.
Not far away, a father fills his mug
…..And lifts the blind to show the black outside.
The day’s beginning he greets with a shrug,
…..Suspending every thought he must decide,
And turns to fetch the milk. There, on the fridge,
…..Cling faces of his children in cheap frames,
…..And now he lingers, murmuring their names,
As one stares out in awe from some high bridge.