i’m not sure this memory belongs here,
maybe crop it out, or leave it in,
yeah, no, we can leave it in, just maybe edit it a little,
give it more depth, more feeling,
make me believe that it’s a memorable moment
in time and space, especially since there are so many,
especially since so many of those moments get lost
in translation, in the ether of remembering,
but hey, like some teenager said over and over again,
take a picture, it’ll last longer
bright iridescent boxes with friendly faces
selling sugary processed goop-dee-goob,
fill the aisles, fulfilled dreams,
shining bright under fluorescent lighting
made to mimic nature,
hunt, then gather, then forage,
but just a touch off,
a touch too artificial, crouched down in the aisle where all the Keebler cookies are and find the ones that
dilate my pupils,
get the pipes roaring, head spinning, limbs flying,
all at a discount, all for the low-low-low-low-super-low price of
whatever it is i have in my pocket,
wait,
what is this
the moment’s been deflated and looks like
it’s been kicked in the face one too (two) many times,
while a french woman in an abaya smokes in the corner,
providing unnecessary, yet relevant commentary
in a language that seems strangely familiar,
though no one really tunes in,
glazed over nakedness holding in a breath
filled with nitrous oxide
Fred Aiken Writing 