Mama's Kodak
I hold in my hand Mama's old fold-up Kodak
In its steel-blue case shut with a tiny curved silver latch.
I carefully unlatch it, watch the worn-out flaky bellows
Extend like an unwelcome, nonfunctional ********,
Emitting a strange smell I remember from my childhood
Seventy years ago, when Mama sternly warned,
"Don't let me catch you playing with my camera! "
But I did, every chance I got; it beckoned to me
Like the epitome of enticement, the soft furry succulent
Cactus she warned us kids never to touch.
But I did, once … once, believe me, and never after!
And I said her camera was the only thing I wanted
That belonged to her when she was gone.
The cactus wrinkled and died years ago from lack of care.
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