One Minute Memory Poem by David Archer

Between the ordinary and the ornate
in an unloved, lidless tin box
countless, fading, tired and clichéd cards
untroubled his passing thumb until
a working girl captured
in sepia scarf and single pocket apron
sparked a one minute memory of her
before her hair turned,
before she became a photograph.

He remembered her
not in mantelpiece Sunday reverence
served with sweet tea and hushed tones
but how she was once young
before her smile began to fray
under the weight of a life spent giving
and the need for a white, washed front door step;
he remembered her last appearance
in and out of Chapel,
hands bleached so close to the bone,
her resting clothes paler than her flesh.