A Glance in the Mirror
A Glance in the Mirror
Here he is then, the gentlemanly professor,
Ambling about his book-strewn chamber.
Better, the unmarried headmaster
Who never grew beyond the age
The boys he teaches are
And resents the fact that they will.
Here is the man you were always
Going to be, whether in Dublin or Prague,
Or in some Lower East Side slum
Where you took the train northbound from
To teach literature to disdainful boys
Who knew Peggy Guggenheim
As Peggy, the woman their mothers
Liked to have over to talk about art.
You were going to be one of them
No matter where and when you were born.
You are of the bespectacled class
Riot cops drool to rough up.
In the melee you lose your glasses.
A boy — what on earth is he doing
Here, hands them up to you.
You don’t need them to see
The man he’ll grow up to be.
He is one of your tribe,
The near-sighted ones whose eyes
Have been ruined by reading
But who can see the future clear.
Yes...