Leigh Sugar

The prison photographer makes his rounds,

walking from tiny table to tiny table, asking who wants a Polaroid to commemorate the visit. I buy a photo ticket in the waiting room vending machine to get a picture by this bunkie or friend. We keep fucking it up – a blink at the flash; a strand of hair in the mouth; a last-minute glance away from the insta-camera’s snap and its uneditableproof of err. How to cheat; to stretch a ticket into time. Time into time. How to spend more time holding each other and posing. Posing, holding.

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