Prehistory

I was looking for a book of stamps

but found a version of him I don't recognize.

1998, a basement party with wood-paneled walls,

holding a can of that cheap, metallic lager

he won’t even touch at a cookout now.

There’s a grainy flash-glare on his glasses,

wire-rimmed things that went in the trash

long before I knew the sound of his sneeze.

He looks so thin, so remarkably loud,

grinning at a camera held by a girl

whose name I’ll never have to ask.