Greg wore thick-rimmed glasses,
had meticulously,
parted and slicked-back hair,
wore a white button-down
and freshly-pressed slacks
every single day.
CLIK-atik.
“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.
CLIK-atik.
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.
CLIK-atik.
“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,
and archaic.
CLIK-atik.
The whirring machine,
Was so old that it seemed,
Ready to come apart,
In a tumult of loose-screws,
and dustbunnies.
CLIK-atik.
“Hey look! A moose!”
Greg didn’t lie,
but the picture was from such a distance,
that it was hard to make-out,
the animal.
“They’re pretty dangerous,
so we stayed clear.”
CLIK-atik.
A black title card,
With the word “FIN,”
Written minimally,
Spelled the end of the slideshow.
CLIK-atik.
His favorite part of the trip,
and his life,
was sharing the experience,
with his friends,
family,
and wife,
Long after he left.
The File Pile 