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