On First Seeing My Photograph
as a Six-Month Child
Michael R. Collings
Feet splayed, he sits alone
On the harsh concrete expanse-behind
Him, shadowed so severely that nothing
Shows but alternating stripes
(Were they olive and gold, perhaps, or blue
and turquoise, always her favorites).
He sits. His arms raised high
As if begging him or her or them
To bend and pick him up.
They don't-or won't-but laugh (presum-
ably) at antics thought too cute,
Too charming to ignore.
And fifty years slide by.
He sits alone, feet tucked
Sedately beneath his desk, arms
Raised to touch the keyboard and res-
urrect an infant self, a slice
Of shadow, a concrete waste,
And faces just beyond his lens.
