For the photographer

For the Photographer 
(the mystics of the ordinary)

on the side of a lone stretch of highway,
there’s an old house that no one notices,
it’s seen, but immediately forgotten,
because it is decrepit and forlorn with its
broken window frames, wood warped and jagged from abuse,
slanted at odd angles, and mismatched geometry,
all abandoned; save for the mice, and bugs, and
all that nonconsequential stuff.

then the Photographer drives by,
and when he sees the house::: he Stops :::
he Contemplates. he gets out his Camera,
and takes a series of shots, 
each as perfect as the one before.
an hour later he goes home to develop the film.
he prints out his favorite shot, 
and shows it to everyone he knows.

on the side of a lone stretch of highway,
there’s an antique house that everyone notices,
it’s seen, and immediately remembered,
because it is rustic and gothic with its
wounded window frames, wood swollen and bursting from pride,
arranged in unique angles, and complementary geometry,
all fulfilled, with the memories and battle scars, and
all that nonmaterial stuff.

M. L.. Michael
12-22-07

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