Scrubbing dusty photo-frames like brushing my teeth.
A daily ritual. The photos used to sleep in an album
but now they hang on the walls, under the stairs,
above the tele. All the faces of my dead relatives and
friends, but now they will never pass on. They will
be kept alive, even if only by my remembrance.
Holding your photo in the palm of my hand.
I’m sitting outside, watching the sun rise
and the sun set. I wonder where you’ve been.
Maybe like a cowboy movie, you’ll come riding
when the sunset drapes your face in black.
Static, vibrating, random yet sequential
the faces form a white noise image
and I think I saw yours, scrambled in there somewhere
like the eggs that were supposed to be sunny-side up
that I messed up one day. I wonder whether
I would be able to sit near the window, ears
scanning for the sounds of footsteps up the stairs.
I wonder if one day, we could take a photo again,
together. I wash my face, I brush my teeth, I scrub my back
but this lewd dirtiness doesn’t go away.