According to Wordsworth, the child is father of the man

although I will avoid reflected light

turning from my mirror again, again

because I know I’m headed for midnight;

a little rest and a little more pain.

A heart that flows a river’s what I see;

(my tiny life is dropping down the drain)

- not knowing who I am or who I’ll be -

although my son loves mirrors like a Star,

sees himself as Elvis, Danny, he

adores his own reflection, avatar;

knows that power’s rising to a height

with alchemy of joy - and jollity -

polishing the mirror, burning bright,

although I will avoid reflected light.