Old photos never fill in the gaps.
I want to shake my camera, my computer,
my SD card, until more pictures fall out,
the sneaky hiding bastards
finally narrating the story I was too much in a hurry to tell.
Old photos always leave an irritating itch.
I was just there; why does it already seem a dream?
If it wasn’t for a few other pairs of eyes that looked back at me
through whatever the name of digital film,
I’d declare my memory both dead and eaten
Maggots are gnawing at my heart
in a terrific soporific lull
There is yet more to eat, more to dwell on -
why is it all gone?
And yet if it wasn’t, would I remember to notice?