I
am
sometimes
aware that
I took the time to
glance at my passing image in
a mirror, something I'd never done ten years ago—
two years ago— searching more than
a passing notion,
a better
cast face,
a
keen
striking
self-image
bold, satisfying;
my father would practice smiling
after he shaved; once his red hair and ivory teeth
were brushed, following the minty
flavored ritual
of pulling
tugging
waxed
strings—
lifelines
with which he
flossed-my, father too,
looked deep into his reflection
longing for the purity not guaranteed one's straight
incisors; no antique, beveled
mirror framed with shells
trumpet snails
coral
and
glue
gifted
me a screen
to dream on, to look
in (my deceased dad needs no glass
to groom!) Still, when I pass by windows, polished metal,
mirrors, dad catches my mind's eye,
wondering if I'll
perfectly
practice
his
smile.
