From a photo by Diane Arbus
On the low rise of the hill,
children sit waiting for the camera.
A moment of time frozen on silver bromide
and gelatin, or perhaps glass.
It’s not of this century,
the photographer adjusts the lens,
the tripod uneven, poses the sky and the hill,
trees lose their footing, the children watch,
waiting patiently in the spring grass, barefoot,
wearing silly summer hats.
One girl smiles, already willing to please.
A lone boy scowls, but he is intrigued,
the other tilts his head with hands on knees
drawn up, the other girl turns her body away,
and chews her fingernails, waits.
Four moods caught on film,
their bodies have long since left the frame.
They are now adults
with lives of their own in the city.
Beyond the frame, the hill stretches
its famous green expanse, the humid air,
heavy with the weight of cigarettes,
the shadows creeping in.
From a photo by Diane Arbus
In a white room not his own,
a man in an overcoat lounges on the twin bed.
It could be a hotel room
but the bedspread I recognize,
fitted velour, stripes faded with age.
Maybe he’s in his mothers house,
having stepped in for his monthly visit,
baked afternoon dust irritates his nose.
An expensive lithograph is on the wall,
it could be Matisse or even a Chagall.
A sophistication of line. A lamp on the bed table
is like a drum of light echoing.
Everything is symmetrical.
Perhaps she was concerned with order.
Let’s say he followed in his father’s footsteps.
The path led away from the house,
towards the freedom of an open bottle
shared amongst cronies at the end of the block.
The traveling salesman, the caged room,
the open road.
From a photo by Diane Arbus
In a room painted white,
through a gauze curtain
that falls like water to the floor
and filters the light,
the window shades corralled the light
into intense squares.
A woman sits in an easy chair.
It holds her like a child,
she is reading, her legs crossed,
ankles slender as a deer.
She hunches forward, her glasses,
the lamp, the window capture light
from another time.
The other chair is empty.
The cushion, lopsided, as if the man
who had sat there only crossed his legs
to one side, to the left.
The rug is freshly vacuumed
you can see the dry trails in the carpet
leading back towards the walls at oblique angles.
The lamp, once a pitcher from another era
is barely visible, the legs of the escritora,
the edges of a book,
the poem in another room.
From a photo by Diane Arbus
At the dance studio
the couple poses for the camera
She back steps, and arabesque
of unattainableness. He leans toward her.
His pants are too short
he’s in a growing spurt.
The two trophies lined up
on the dance floor at oblique angles
create a triangle of what is wanted,
what is hidden, and what will come.
The pale birch floor, a vast expanse,
leads to a bank of chairs,
empty of thought
or of wallflowers.
4/11/08
Montara Middle School
