The child in the glass peers at me.

His blue eyes swiveling about

at the counter’s edge,

eight perfect fingers gripping white.

With triumphant glee he smiles

neat rows of tiny pearls, laughing.

I laugh too.


The boy in the glass glares back at me.

Narrowed brown eyes,

thin bare shoulders sporting

flexed arms held rigid.

Faint lines trace hidden muscles

and a divot stamped

in the middle of his chest.

His arms drop, frowning.

I smile with pressed eyebrows.


The young man in the glass scrutinizes me.

Brown steel piercing, challenging.

Arms braced upon the counter

bearing tree root veins.

Wisps of the proudest hair

sprout above a stamped divot.

A girl with auburn hair

glides between his arms,

the brown steel melts and glows.

I watch with sad eyes and pursed lips.


The man in the glass studies me.

Brown and grey

delving, asking, seeking.

Thin lips framed by stubble

and faint shadows cup his eyes.

A curly forest blankets his chest

with a small impression at the center.

Calloused hands with bitten nails

firmly clench the counter edge.

I answer him.


The man in the glass beams at me.

Brown-grey laughing above

blue glass giggling.

Thinning hair retreating

as his son’s feathered hair advances.

Meticulous little fingers

barely surround each index.

Bowed wobbling legs

bounce with glee.

My eyes gleam.


The man in the glass regards me.

Grey-brown a winking twinkle

amid one thousand creases.

Parchment skin

bearing ten thousand stories

scrawled in endless lines.

Gazing a hundred thousand miles deep,

head of a feathery white cloud.

He nods satisfied

snuffing the cloud with a grey tweed cap.

He tips the brim with a smirk.

I nod back.


The ancient man in the glass peers at me.

Grey slits floating in

a melted constellation of age spots.

Wispy smoke smolders

atop his old dome.

Tubes under his nose

and in plump blue veins.

His mouth creaks

to form the final words.

“It is well.”

My eyes close.



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