• I look at the senile old woman,
    Hair grey and stringy,
    Teeth yellowed and crooked;

    She tries to tell me of the wonders of photography,
    How it’s her escape from reality,
    I doubt she was fully grounded to begin with;

    “Freelancing isn’t bringing in much money,
    It’s a hard market,
    Be weary,
    You have to find your own style,
    I can’t stress that enough;”

    I’m nervous, talking to her,
    She’s too open and friendly,
    And only a stranger,
    She continues to preach about style,
    And moves to grab her camera;

    “I don’t go out to shoot photos,
    I just bring my camera,
    I like shoes, yes cute shoes,
    Oh and lines,
    I really like lines;”

    I view the few photos she shows,
    Her “master pieces” shot with senile eyes,
    My heart is stricken with pain,
    And fear,
    The more she shows,
    The stronger the feelings grow;

    “I don’t know if you like it,
    But I do,
    I have won awards you know,
    But don’t let me take up all your time”;

    I hold back words I was contemplating on saying,
    Let her be Jerry Ulsman,
    Let her be Art Wolffe,
    Even if it’s make believe,
    You don’t have to ruin her dreams;

    “They’re really nice photos”,
    A crooked yellow smile appears,
    My own dreams hang on a thread,
    Perhaps this is a foreshadowing to my future,
    Or just some random experience,
    The pause is too long and awkward,
    The nervousness boils over,
    “Sorry I have to go help the next table,”
    The exit to the scene.