so much for flashbulb memories.

for the last week I've been pestering the poor man in bear necesseties, across from the bagel place in collegetown. I suppose it's not his fault he let that poem slip out my life forever, but how dare he claim it had never been there?

i ran out of eggs this afternoon and stopped by the grocery store in collegetown. there it was. not in a faded black, wooden frame, surrounded by knickknacks, as I remember it so vividly, but in a scratched, plastic sleeve, on the wall between the eggs and the produce. all is not lost.

it's titled "what it's like living in Ithaca New York" by dick lourie. it's printed with a photograph by a woman who's name I forgot. at least one other person has also found it. i invite you to as well. but there is the utter impossibility of giving it to you in a way that will affect you like it did me. maybe that's not the point. forget i ever said anything about it, then it will surprise you, too. expect is a dirty word.

time to slip out of, or into, the weekend fog that is yet thick and persistent.