Here’s a man.

Here’s a man of speckled porcelain,
staring out the window, in a place
they call the Burrow.
If you look closely at this man,
you’ll see a slight glimmer
to his left, as bright
as a reluctant ghost.
He watches the night simmer
till it boils down to nothing:
the birthday of somebody lost.

                His birthday, in fact.
He lets nobody light
the candles; and no one
brings the cake, and no one
wishes him - his wish is so exact.
His mother’s smile, they say,
is by a half slimmer. His wife
has but been given only half a ring.

        Half and half and half
and half of everything.

                Here’s a boy.

Here’s a boy so small
for a boy six years old.
A boy a lot shorter than
the feathered sticks he flies.

And here’s the boy, approaching
the man, who hasn’t slept.
He holds a something in his arms,
a wriggling little something
he has kept for this day.

                “What have you got there?�
the man asks, and you can see
on his face, an anticipation
in the old, unforgotten way.

“A squirrel,� says the boy,
“a birthday gift for you.�

                “It is red,� the man murmurs.
“I tried to make it blue,�
the boy replies with shining eyes.
“Red is better,� says the man,
now a little full.

(The night has boiled to nothing
but the reddest of sunrise.)