Richard

The name on the back of the snapshot,

written in longhand, has pressed through

to the front and appears in reverse

as if written in smoke, above a young man

in a jacket, pinching the brim of his hat,

smiling into the lens. He must have been

Richard, the letters more clearly defined

on the right, where the capital R

was pressed down more firmly, while the rest

of the letters grow progressively fainter,

swept backward, like a contrail becoming

a feather. Wind lifts a wisp of his hair,

whips his trousers around his thin legs.

Wind’s at work in the gray sky above him,

above somebody’s Richard, from somewhere,

a young man who looked happy that instant,

his name little more than a faint trace

on the sky as he posed for his picture,

but written in ballpoint, to last, on its back.