Polaroid

Future photograph, blank Polaroid.

Like the face of a young boy,
true colours not grown in yet.

And I’ve searched
this goldmine, of
the stupid and
asinine,
to probe what kind
of man I’d eventually be.

You see his
mother’s salvation in
the time she has
taken to teach him,
but also an
agent of her
aspiration’s opposites as she
plants a kiss on
chewing cheeks.

You see his father’s face
at birthday parties though he
doesn’t exist;
background bottles of
Bacardi that
double for her happiness.

Trinkets he in-
herits when
the cancers of her
narrative
metastasize.

When the colours set,
in times of higher resolution,
from black and white to
sepia revolution to
faded and
dated and folded and
frayed,

it always saw the good;

amnesty for my inner child
before it grew up
foul-mouthed and vile
fueled by the trials of
creative sepsis.

That
Polaroid is consensus in
a life
Sunday
breakfast is all we can
still agree on;
because when
the dominoes fall
I find myself so radicalized that all
the magic you tried to bring me fails.

My true colours
prevail, and true resolution gives away
its flaws.

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4 thoughts on “Polaroid

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