Now that morning has finally come,
you swaddle yourselves into a sleep
that eluded both of you, not to mention
your conscientious mother and father,
all night long. One of you hatless,
your curled fingers about your ears,
the other with a single hand
attached to the cotton stocking cap
still clinging to your thoughtful head—
for you look, both of you, on the verge
of an idea. What I wouldn’t give
to know what it is like to start over.
Yet, watching you, I do.