The Bad Light

I was digging for my papers in a cardboard box

when I found the Polaroid from the lake in '94.

Everyone is squinting near the weathered docks,

but he’s the one blocking the view of the shore.

His thumb is a blurry, tan ghost on the right,

obscuring the faces and the grill and the trees.

It’s typical of him to ruin the light,

to put himself exactly where he doesn't please.

A yellowed fingernail casting a shadow of spite

over a memory that should have been clear.

He spent forty years being a blot on the sight,

leaning into the frame, always standing too near.

I didn't find the certificate I came here to get.

I just found a man who hasn't finished his interference yet.