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.