Dec. 1 02?

Think about the photographs in which unwittingly you appear
but only in the background. From where come their takers,
and the loved ones they had meant to photograph, in which you
take up negative space, though you never meant to be in their story?
Can you give a precise account of the places where you were
caught as a bystander, the cities, the sundry countries and parks,
among public fountains, or caught among a burst of pigeons?
Your are scattered as those pigeons and their bread-crumbs.
Can you collect the images that they have taken from you,
erase them as if nothing had happened but wind that eddied
in the pockets behind the intended subjects of the snapshots,
rain-clouds or half-emptied postcard racks? Those hinges
squeak when turned by someone who posed behind you once:
too bad you never had the chance to put your best face forward.

[anonymous, you are everywhere, a face without divinity]
[as ubiquitous as a god, among records, affections of others]
Who knows how many places your captive image has been taken.