Howard Firkin
Where am I left? I must sometimes appear:
the grey hair, blurred face, walking out of shot,
the accidental ambient. They’ve got
my image, even if it isn’t clear;
I must be there, in someone’s treasured snaps.
The long, slow ache to show that we exist
in any tense propels us and we go,
directed by no reason we can know,
aware of nothing that we’ve gained or missed,
but hoping time reveals something perhaps.

So, there I am the shadow in the background,
the motion blur where nothing clear remains,
the unknown, the connection never found:
a small child in a field. I wave at trains.