Extended Family

Yet like grandfather

I bathe before the village crow

the dry chlorine water

my only Ganges

the naked Chicago bulb

a cousin of the Vedic sun

slap soap on my back

like father

and think

in proverbs

like me

I wipe myself dry

with an unwashed

Sears turkish towel

like mother

I hear faint morning song

(though here it sounds

Japanese)

and three clear strings

nextdoor

through kitchen

clatter

like my little daughter

I play shy

hand over crotch

my body not yet full

of thoughts novels

and children

I hold my peepee

like my little son

play garden hose

in and out

the bathtub

like my grandson

I look up

unborn

at myself

like my great

great-grandson

I am not yet

may never be

my future

dependent

on several

people

yet

to come