Golden Hour Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

So many selfies I see,
women holding their phones out to the side—
so who on earth was the photographer,
when her own arm's still in the shot?

Photos taken in the golden hour,
just after sunrise or before sunset,
offset with a summer frock and a raised leg
where my imagination unfolds,
and a joyful scimitar smile,
owning the moment like a second-hand car
bought at auction with only minor faults.

But my question persists—
why does she insist on waving her limp wrist
with an iPhone,
holding a lens that doesn't expose?
And at least her frock has pleats—
something for my eyes to digest.