Classic Poem

In garret lofts poor artists have quite often
painted women bathing, combing hair
inside a nearby mirror ... Your eyes soften,
and, pale as blossoms or flesh from a pear,
your skin glints in the light. Snow falls outside
amid the greyness and the winter cold,
yet this one moment it is warm inside.

Crouched in the slipper tub, you sit and hold
your sprawling hair in your right hand, and comb
it with your left. You smile, sing to yourself,
and in the glass see pennies on the shelf,
a garret-loft too bare to be your home.
And I see what those starving artists see
and try to catch it for eternity.