Vol. VIII, No. 3, 1995

Last Look

When we drive in the mist to town together

this morning, my four-year-old son

and I, he stays very quiet, and I don't know whether

he's thinking about something he's seen

out the fogged window, some other

time, Or only of what he soon

must do: take his coat off, kiss me goodbye,

become himself alone for one more day.