Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.
Now that Kodachrome is dead
Will such fine exceptionalism
Be called into the station because
No one can find the film they need
Is it stored someplace did you sell it?
The police are interrogating you
(The sweat dripping from them)
Getting hit a few times in the head
Confess there was once a project
Conceived late at night in a shack
A green man lots of empty poems
Who didn’t know atoms from Adam
Whose one simple moment wanted you
To take that picture then you waited
Waited forty years for it to fade.
© 2012 Rob Schackne