The Camera

The Camera
Jessica Marie

My dad's prized possession,
the label dated from 1979.
The body, silver and black,
a shiny gloss sure looks fine.

It zooms for 10 miles,
and can print 8x10s.
It loads film pretty fast,
but breaks it when
I wind it the wrong way.

When I wind and wind
and the pressure's tight,
sometimes I think with
a passion of fright and flight,
but the feeling is fleeting.

With my dad's prized possession,
I take photos with Mr. Army man;
I'm surprised he lets me,
as he dresses in uniforms so tan.

With my dad's prized possession,
I like the time spent with him--
laughing, finding the right spot;
on field, on grass, in the gym.

With my dad's prized possession,
I also take photos with friends,
with goofy smiles and funny poses,
we take and take until the roll ends.

Now becoming my prized possession,
memories are made,
I feel the bond grow between us;
with Mr. Army man, the feelings wade.

My prized possession
takes pictures so shiny,
a lovely hue or black/white,
the negatives are so tiny.

With my prized possession,
the memories are shared
with cards or scrapbooks
made with love and care.