My uncle knows cameras,
knows how to break them apart,
clean the spot between the lens
and a shutter curtain.

He knows tripod lamps,
extension tubes, the sharpness of lenses.
He knows how to revamp the light sensitivity,
and switch the focal point of the view.

He must have taken
thousands of pictures in a week,
yet he hasn’t taken a picture of me in years.
As I live across the Pacific Ocean,
we hardly talk anymore.

I wonder what it would be
like if I saw him observing the scene,
while I was walking on the boulevard
where colors are painted by the yellow daisy.

How we would react to each other,
how his looks have changed,
and if he’s clutching the camera with his wide palm,
I will stand by the flowers.
Posing in front of bright shadows
where the camera shutter curtain blinks.