Poem: Immortality of Sorts

If we exist in someone's album, do we exist forever? Or at least until their house burns down?

Immortality of Sorts I’m in a thousand photos, maybe more Never mind that I’m on a corner,     looking slouchy and blowing my nose,     or half turned, mid-stride, caught out     in the haziness of tourist films They don’t know me, I’m unrecognizable     as a spear-carrier in Ben Hur, yet there But extras make the pictures too     and what’s Prague without people? So there I am, in a thousand cupboard drawers,     tucked safely under the place-mats     or glorified in a treasured trip album Some tribes believe the picture is their soul     and there I am, forgotten in an attic

This poem is included in Jim Freeman's poetry collection BROKEN PIECES available here in print or as an e-Book in your favorite formats.