A hunk of bakelite
Clothed in dusty silk
Skulks in the basement,
Silently shrilling
In disconnected tones.

Beside it, on the shelf,
A well-worn Polaroid,
Neatly boxed in original packaging,
Wonky tripod pointedly retracted.

A faded leather wrist-strap
Clings to a yellow stained face,
Where bent fingers forever recall
Three-thirty-eight-and-seventeen-seconds.

Products of a generation
That raced off to chase the ever new,
Never standing still,
Onwards and onwards, until

One day when they come
To sit upon the shelf,
And to reminisce
Of all that might have been.