Feb 10 2008
A battered blue box
in the back of a closet
full of black and white photographs,
scattered like playing cards;
no labels, no dates.
I see smiling faces.
And new moms
showing-off their babes.
And old men in baggy swim trunks,
all skinny arms and legs.
And young fathers
smoking, cracking jokes,
standing tall by white-wall Chevys
and 2-door Fords.
Everyone looks happy.
Everyone says “cheese”,
except the wise-cracking teens with slicked-back hair
who affect their usual indifference,
that awkward mix
of bravado and self-consciousness.
And everyone believes
in the posterity of snapshots,
the power of film.
They are thrilled the camera captured this moment,
when they were beautiful
or proud
or full of hope,
and dared to be immortal.
I have no idea who they were, or when;
except that now
even the babies have grown old.
I know it’s superstitious, like pins in Voodoo dolls,
but I leave the old photographs alone.
In a box in the back of the closet,
where never-ending smiles
keep lighting-up the dark.
