Prize Fighters
by Tom Waters
i used to take photographs
of the girls I wanted so desperately
to sleep with—
there are albums filled with their
quizzical wonder
impromptu smiles
forlorn profiles
in dim lit bars
as the flash
took them by surprise.
these were shortly
followed by landscape
scenarios
with the muse in question
somewhere in the foreground
taken with the camera and the man behind it.
then bedroom motifs
ruffled hair
morning breath and no makeup
dark sunrises where sex hid in dawn shadows
in black & white—
turn the page and they are gone
not a trace
no hint as to what transpired
the blossoming subject
vanished;
replaced by a new lass
a new love
as long as the 35 mm rolls would abide.
no sign of a fight
nor glimpse of hurt feelings
drunken fumblings
discovered cheating
just rolling pastures, crisp monochrome profiles & the sweeping ephemera
of neon bar signs, snowscapes, bedposts, apartments in
disarray
shortly followed by their replacement.
i ran out of albums
undeveloped rolls of film
sat unexposed and neglected in glove compartments
camera suitcases filled with film paraphenalia
catch-all desk drawers
with miscellaneous forgotten keepsakes
they leer back at me
in so many years
the grins and captured laughs
curtsies and wise-assed smiles
saying ‘fuck you, tom,
look what you did
to me’
i stopped taking pictures
of women
i’m attracted to
because pieces of me
wound up on the film
too.
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