Here’s my problem: for as long as I can remember,
I’ve ended up in other people’s photographs.
The frames of strangers. I know because it happens
Biweekly—I walk into a new friend’s apartment,
And in her family portrait with Mickey Mouse,
There I am, vanilla ice cream cone in hand,
Walking toward a trash can. In a gallery
Last week, an exhibit of 90’s images
In New York caught me crouching in the street
Outside the elementary school. Or now, that couple
Kissing on that bench, his arm extended
And pointed toward the kiss—I tell you, I’m in the shot.