I love those old black & white saw-toothed Kodak moments:

the confusing scowl in a sea of smiles,

the mysterious sidelong glance

that didn’t make the photo album cut,

 

the ones mothers frowned at while shuffling

through the stack a couple of weeks after the family picnic

then dropped into the unmarked grave

of a cardboard box,

 

but kept, like chipped china,

their Instamatic truth safe

from Photoshop crop, or worse,

the digital click into oblivion.

 

This poem first appeared in Echoes.

Used here with the author’s permission.