Found an old roll of film in a worn bag
I used to carry traveling summers:
tight-wound canister, stills undeveloped,
Kodachrome, color, one-twenty, twelve-shot.
Long gone light, maybe the time when we smiled
that August day, wind-streaked, of the ocean
waters that churn yet somewhere, but not here.
Sand grains caught in the uptake spool,
on the bottom of the leather duffel,
brushed perhaps from your hands, your face,
the nape of your neck, at the end of day.
Tanned children trot with kites along the shore
their voices trailing faint but still alive
arabesques of laughter atop the waves
where young swimmers start journeys to Europe,
or Asia, or just to the buoy and back.
Bi-plane pulls a banner
across graying skies, says All you can dream!
Bare bulbs light the boardwalk,
the tick-a-tee spin-down of Fortune’s Wheel
stops here. Does the sand still hold your body?
And when autumn came I left the bag packed,
amazing how things can keep when untouched.
The film? The labs have all closed down,
there’s no place left on earth to develop,
to bring to life the life that was that day –
Kodachrome is now just a curio.
© Carlos Chagall, 2013
Alphabet City 