Polaroids of Tomorrow by Andrew John Lafleche

POLAROIDS OF TOMORROW

aunt joan died last night

2 a.m. crying in her sleep

five days shy of august

pissed ‘cause the notification

woke me

pissed ‘cause

mom will be upset

this news contiguous with

her cancer diagnosis

two days from now

thursday, doctor says

six months to live

mom too eager to argue

been looking for an excuse

eighteen years now

second husband too drunk

to notice the sobs

behind the stacks of bills

on the kitchen table

pencil carrying digits

one column to the next

expense book margin

figures prove there’ll be too much

month at the end of the money

not including his secret

revolving payday loans

400% APR equal to a downpayment

they’ll need when the house

get’s repo’ed nine weeks

into her chemo

these polaroids of tomorrow

scroll on repeat

the daughter swiping past each

she’s 18, not oblivious

graduated high school this year past

has a driver’s license

been to europe

dreams of dancing

astute as all rubes be

knows dreams don’t materialize

come the morning

at least

not for kids who come from

homes with drunk dads

who fall in the bathroom

and pull the toilet off its posts

trying to get up, floods the

first the floor of their single-story

two-bedroom–

not for kids who come from

families with cancer moms

who abandon them to die

because dying is easier

then a second divorce

this late in the game

save face–

not for kids born into this

she justifies

slams her phone on the desk

after one final like of her

filtered friends' picture perfect

lives, grabs the safety scissors

from the drawer and slices

a desperate goodbye