This poem is called "Monday."
"In the blue-tiled bathroom, my father shaves.
Above the cold mosaics, repeating quadrants,
he stands and sways before the mirror.
My sister isn't born yet.
My mother is asleep.
The wide legs of my father's cotton shorts,
empty as wind socks, the shaving brush, plump with lather,
the rectangle of stiff sponge shredding blue crumbs
in the sink's hollow, the dental floss wound round its bobbin.
My father picks up his razor and begins to scrape,
as an anchor of sun drops down the air shaft
and touches the mug's cumuli of lather.
My father dips his brush again.
Like a son, I balanced on the tub's rim
and watched him and touched my face as I pass the door again.
Each morning, washing the identical face
I touch now for luck or warning."