All those long hours

days, weeks caged into jobs with no prospects.

Odd one out

lost to the streets he walked

in snatched lunch hours

with a cheap camera, curious

capturing moments on little glassy eyed

strips of film snaking glistening

unwinding from the tank

hung out to dry, teardrops of history

in the making,

a hobby and more besides,

a way of life. 

 

Now five decades have past

and they are pleased to see me again;

buildings like old overcoats cast aside,

people, the walking dead

bright eyed, resolute

haunting my new present with hope,

those glassy eyed strips of film,

a kiss of life: jpeg immortality

incongruous, incomparable,

tales of my random past.