Greg wore thick-rimmed glasses,
parted and slicked-back hair,
wore a white button-down
and freshly-pressed slacks
every single day.
“Here’s a picture at Niagara falls with Molly,”
They stood in front of the famous formation,
Facing our neighboring northern nation,
Looking uncannily like a modern American Gothic.
Molly smiled lovingly,
but had nothing much to say,
aside from “Greg, honey, get out of the way”
As his shadow was blocking the projection
of the spectacular cascade.
“After we crossed the border
We drank a few beers, and ordered poutine.”
Someone from the sea of folding chairs called-out mid-yawn,
“Greg you’re the only person I know who would summer in Canada.”
Molly smiled again.
She knew more than most about Greg,
Who found excitement in the routine,
The whirring machine,
Was so old that it seemed,
Ready to come apart,
In a tumult of loose-screws,
“Hey look! A moose!”
Greg didn’t lie,
but the picture was from such a distance,
that it was hard to make-out,
“They’re pretty dangerous,
so we stayed clear.”
A black title card,
With the word “FIN,”
Spelled the end of the slideshow.
His favorite part of the trip,
and his life,
was sharing the experience,
with his friends,
Long after he left.