Voices on the Wind
Voices from Teen Years
Behind the Lens
by Larry Turner
At thirteen he lined up nine
other seventh-grade boys
under the Texaco sign,
arms around each otherís necks,
in their hands, baseball gloves and caps.
In his, the camera.
Three years later, he snapped two girls
singing a duet in the talent show.
In the cafeteria, he was invisible to them.
When he went to photograph the prom,
what to wear? Suit and tie,
as if he belonged there?
Jeans and sweat shirt,
as if he didnít care?
In college, the yearbook sent him
out to parties. He brought back:
Two couples, heads close together,
conversing over the bandís din.
A drunk sophomore between two girls,
a beer in one hand, his other around
a bulldog. Pianist and sax player,
yoked together by the jazz they played.
Sorority rush party, thirty girlsí
high-pitched screams, not a male in sight.
Now he takes brides and grooms,
receiving lines, garter throws.
Over and over he hears:
You attend so many weddings,
how is it you never married?