-Hold that pose—

We're neatly dressed
And standing for a snapshot

On a Sunday morning,
My father, my Uncle Frank and me.

Behind us, the Church is dressed

In scaffolding, ready for its facelift.

Between the index and middle fingers
Of my father's right hand,

The burning Chesterfield waits
For the shutter to click,

For the lens to record our drop of light,
It waits for the next penetration into his lungs.

Hold that pose. The smoke
Which hangs in the air from the burning tip

Has become the smoke that got away.
I saw it going.
I didn’t see it coming.

Enclosed is the snapshot
Of a moment in time preserved
At the face of his Church.