Photo from 1976
by Ann Walters
We were all polyester then, the boys
wide lapels, the girls long hair and ribbon.
We were reflections in a camera’s eye,
blonde and tan. Jr. High swagger,
making it up as we went.
We were clean out of sight.
Fireworks above the orange grove
where light fell in pieces
too small to mean anything.
We were shiny then, blinding.
Instant pictures that blushed into being.
Now the brio has molted from our images,
leaving only blonde hair, tan lines.
Faded polyester.
ANN WALTERS lives in the Pacific Northwest. Her poems have appeared in juked, Umbrella, Literary Mama, Poet Lore, Poetry International, and many others. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
