They are not lost
the photos - those docusnaps
indelible chemicals of time
polaroid, 35mm, blow ups
a film of ages
dodging the viewfinder
stills that moved to blur
eyes shut with the shutter
a grin, grim as the contortion
of that smile command.

Not lost just let slip
the grasp. Redacted
cut aways of regret
like throwaway lines
the tongue spat before tact. 
I prefer
that I was never there.

For Merril’s Poetics prompt: Are you listening, we are asked to choose two from a given list of podcast titles for inclusion in the poem. Not Lost and I was Never there are my selections.