Photojournalism

I burned the negatives. The camera
makes you uncomfortable. Coat pulled
up over your face. You turning towards
the wall. Just misses

the chance to remember you. It’s
become a game. One quick snapshot
for someone to bag. But you… you’re good. You
put Polaroid out of business, when you restarted
the Trojan war in the living room.

Arms reaching out and flashes banging
blue picture shows inside my eyelids. I dove
like secret service in front of a Nikon that had
its eye on your silhouette from behind the couch.
You were staring down the crowded hallway,
lined with stupored soldiers booming chorus;
war songs from older days.

well I’m a-walkin’ down the road
with my head in my hands,
lookin’ for a girl who needs
a worried man. only one kind
of favor I’ll ask you, just
allow me one more chance.

We made our way,
through the corridor filled with drunkards,
downstairs to the porch,
to smoke a cigarette
where the light showed right on your face.

You were wearing that hyacinth dress.
You were soaked in champagne.
You looked into my eyes.
I looked down
and dug into my chest.