Like Yesterday

By Peter Kahn

I see you now, as if I were a camera; in black and white.

You stare at me, your eyes, as always, sparkle. You’re half smiling: your mouth turns down at the corners, aloof and bemused.

I can barely see your needle-sharp incisors, like cat’s teeth, your vicious bite.

You’re sitting in a chair, legs crossed, one hand draped over your knee, holding a cigarette. You have a punk haircut, circa mid-80s. You’re about to say something, something sly.

You’re so cool… Say, what?

I’m glad you became a fabulous photographer.

I googled you today. You seemed more alive than dead.