our eyes would see spots

when the polaroid bulb flashed

blue-white

and us kids always wondered

how the bulb got so hot,

hot enough to transform from

a crystaline orb into a

glassy mush at the flick of a lever,

and after doing its deed, soon disguarded

and all schriveled up like a 100 year old

scrotum in the cradle

of its chrome rimmed metal socket;

when daddy wasn't lookin'

we'd try to remove that transparent

testicle from its shiny base, just so we

could catch a thrill and roll it between our

thumb and middle fingers, knowin' it was

still hot enough to blister our naughty digits. . .

but it never did,

and still Mama scolded,

"See 'daire, served y'all right!" . . .

but we were more into awe

as opposed to the science of it all. . .

mostly we just wanted to see ourselves

imaged in our Sunday best so we could pick

the finest of chemical etchings to scotch tape up

on the wood planked family wall;

funny that no matter how organized we act,

we still put up our photos,

dressed to impress,

still'd by a flash from a little black box with

a roll of magic paper that we shook. . .

no one knows why. . .we just shook it, shook

that polaroid picture, as if frictions of the air

would blow-dry away the ugly before the

wetness sealed our visual fate

we were so proud of those 'roids, 'cause

they, like us, so we thought, would last

forever. . .so we didn't bother to write the

names on what we knew

would never go away;

NOW. . .

come family reunion time,

we visit the family wall where The Stones

are etched with the wear and tear of a

time that's long forgotten,

and the names have been smoothed slick,

further confounding the generations who

only ask us old remaining models,

What's the point?

Nobody cares who they were.

~*~

2004 by cynth'ya lewis reed.

All rights reserved.