he sits on a stoop
in a factory town
he is a mirror
in flesh and blood
only deep wrinkles
stand out darker
than the near night
long deep lines
of the coal
his father mined
corn rows
plowed by mule
his grandfather
worked behind
he sits
in the cool
while other husbands
and fathers watch
dim tubes
after supper
his grandfather sat
his father sat
while across the way
I see my childhood
playing hide and seek
on a lawn
beneath tall trees
my young summer
creeps across the street
a refracted flow
of new mown grass
and humid air
about my bare feet
in wet grass waiting
for the count
one two three
up to ten and then
the search begins
as I now search the mirror
and often find a wave of hair
just like my father’s
but not just like
the same
just reflected
or a thought
just like my mother’s
but not just like
the same
reflected
my mother
who played the game
counting one two three
up to ten and then
searched in shadows
for her hiding children
and who searched my face
for her father
for the Thompson
in me
like a tide
the heat recedes
leaving only cold road
the man on the stoop
mine-deep in the dark
and the Thompson in me