Today I found my camera. She is small, digital and Japanese,
her instructions are in a foreign language: English.

Slipping her from her case I notice twenty buttons designed to confuse me,
I am reminded of a ship with a competent crew whose captain cannot read a comlenspass.

With a recent history too painful to catalog she has not been used lately,
though her memory may contain a few blurred and misshapen masterpieces.

Her batteries, removed long ago as an act of kindness, lie upstairs in a drawer,
inside her there is a genie awaiting a new master, someone to press those buttons.

Carefully replacing her into her black and red tomb I set her down
between a lamp with no bulb and an mp3 player that refuses to speak to me.



poem © copyright Brian Shirra 2011


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