caught daydreaming,
caught naked in front of the Speedway gas station,
flailing limbs, feet bleeding from scratching against the asphalt,
yelling about the gas prices,
bathed in sweat, with the faint, no, the overwhelming scent
of gasoline steaming up and choking me,
i don’t know why the price keeps ticking up,
but a subtle anxiety settles over my entire being,
and i feel hungry, despite having ate a salami on rye
twenty minutes ago
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
Fred Aiken Writing 