The Half of It

A hot child sees itself and cries.
The kind face kissing through the glass
Perhaps half wants the things to come
To be the things already done,

Like thank-you letters. I was home
By eight! I had a lovely time.
Can you believe how much he’s grown?
‘Train gone,’ he says. He weighs a ton.

Back in the car, the calm’s a front.
Cumulative embarrassment
At having bought a foreign make
Glues pink parents to grey plastic

While their home-grown self-scrutineer
Flops sideways in the Honda’s rear.
Sometimes the gone are gone for good.
Then others step out of the shade

To hold and kiss and separate
A hot child in the glassy light
From smiles that say, we lied, it’s true.
It doesn’t mean we don’t love you.

Awake in middle age, I hear
The sound of life measuring mid-air
The muffled pulse, snow-falling slow,
Of things half done that come and go.