He was out walking around

in the forgettable world
of people talking, laughing,
eating fast food,
and shopping.
The picture was in sharp focus,
all senses lazily engaged
in the eternal present,
as he manuevered aimlessly,
noticing braided hair, a blue cell phone,
a little mutt panting in the warmth,
an orange, hand-lettered sign
advertising a local reggae band.
He stopped by the little green
restaurant with the sun-faded
menus on the outside wall.
He noticed they had three kinds
of shrimp, and he remembered
how his Mom would always deep
fry them in that old Kenmore fryer
she had for about a hundred years,
and she always made those
great french fries in it, too
and he thought about that
little tiny kitchen, and all the lives and dramas
and laughs that had flowed through it,
and a multitude of voices and faces and smells
passed by like a faded home movie.
He stood quietly, amazed as always,
at how fast he could drift back into the
dimly lit, sketchy world behind his forehead,
and at how quickly he could conquer
not only distance
but times that would never come again
as well.