I sat in the food court at the mall yesterday and watched an eight or nine-year-old girl and her baby sister, who couldn’t have been more than three, posing for selfies at a table, the smaller girl mimicking her “older” sister’s every pouty, hopefully sensual grimace. They finally became aware of the fact that I was photographing them photographing themselves and they shifted chairs, turning their backs to me, but went on for another few minutes, determining the face they wanted to turn to the world by what they saw reflected in the older sister’s phone.
I like a crinkly sort of smile
that lacks a single trace of guile.
Smiles sinister are not my thing,
nor are the polar chills they bring.
Selfies contain In their morass
little I might label class.
Sexy smiles, much composed
of postured puckers, planned and posed.
Babies imitate their sisters,
miming come-ons to strange misters
who might stumble on their page
that online might become the rage.
They learn the lingo and the walk.
Mime the postures, talk the talk.
Mindful of how they come and go,
everything done for the show.