Looking into a photograph
is like spying on the ghosts
who should be haunting you.
There all three of them are
on a porch swing,
a blindingly orange afternoon,
drinking Arnold Palmers.
Your eyes could ruin themselves at the sight.
If not for pictures
how frightening
how indifferent the world would be.
But how refreshing Arnold Palmers are, whether on a porch swing or in a golf cart…
Yowza! Tight, delightful poem. It has lasting power.
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