She gazes out towards his constant staring
through the round lens of the grey Minolta,
his eyes unseen but frowning, uncaring
of her aching back and arms. "I toldya,
keep the sign up!" he grunts, snapping again.
Sunlight smirks onto the driveway of the new
development proudly backdropping the scene.
Her jaws clench, grimacing into sky blue.
Later he will dip her in chemicals,
To get one perfect print. It's a living.
On the clothesline the papers magical-
ly form the image of her face, smiling,
hiding the thoughts that aren't so rapturous.
Isn't it strange how cameras can capture us?
(c) Deanna Rubin 1997