In the Bathroom Mirror

There is little to be said
on the mornings her mother sleeps.
After corn flakes and jelly toast,
the girl stands facing the mirror,
steadies her frame against the razor-stubbled sink.
The bright of the light shines too early
and he squints as he tips his head to the right
finding the center of her hairline,
his concentration quieting any small talk
he might otherwise attempt; all but the
small click of his nails as he gathers
ropes of her hair, right over left over right.
She watches his eyes, studies his jaw
wonders if someday she’ll stand
in front of the mirror, scrape shave-cream
off her tipped-back chin,
swish the razor in the puddled sink water.