Photo Album
by Richard Dinges, Jr.
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Trees grew to block the sun.
Sidewalks cracked and
children learned to drive
and bellies covered belt buckles.
We no longer play volleyball
in the side yard, the net
tangled into a indecipherable
knot on a shelf. Faces changed
too slowly to notice,
until the women build
scrapbooks of old photos
to remind the men what
they noticed all along.
The young men behind our eyes
suddenly fail to recognize
themselves. Our adjustment
to mirrors became a lie
and we now join our wives
in middle age, flipping
ahead through pages
to check how many blank
pages remain to be filled.
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