Broken Tripod
written by: Neil Szuch
He would have been thirteen;
The camera set for long exposure.
Timing the meteor shower.
Perfectly aligned, lens steady.
One night stand, long, long ago.
Bourbon on the bar, bottle uncorked;
Two fingers in the cup, one ice cube.
Oaky, smoky, and smooth. Bitters.
Deliberate exposure. Blithering
Financial news on the tube.
“The market trends continue to show
futures in the red. Pundits say the—”
Pour another bourbon; hold the bitters.
Actually, hold the ice, make it a double.
The exposure lingers through the night.
Steady sky, perfect for the shot.
This weekend I’ll head to the lake, cabin shopping.
Sunlight through the oaks and elms, the lake beyond.
“Get an engineering degree,”
they all swore.
I chose business with a minor in art.
Stocks and bonds pay the bills, I feed the soul.
35mm camera with a wide-angle lens.
Automatic shutter, timed for the motion.
Precision instrumentation.
Not a single cloud in sight.
Bourbon number three—well,
maybe it’s number four.
Doubles don’t count as two,
maybe that’s two too many.
iPad buzzes—sister from Dallas—FaceTime.
Engineering a perfect little life.
Pour another drink. Don’t measure. Bourbon, straight.
Tick, tock. Stars streak by.
The camera silently snaps away.
The studio apartment in the city.
The perfect view of Lake Michigan.
“Promise, I’ll call Mom on Sunday.”
Gotta go, Sis, the view is unreal;
naked eyes see the shooting star.
Vivid glow.
Mesmerized.
A bit intoxicated.
Oh no.
Cheap, crummy, dime-a-dozen,
the tripod slipped.
Into the darkroom, hopeful yet tempered.
Layering two long exposures.
Wake from the fog after drinking all night.
I think I’ll name him “Not Meteorite.”
- Broken Tripod - June 10, 2026
- Bread Pudding - February 25, 2026
