You begin to fear all the nowheres are somewheres now.

Everywhere’s been discovered. Is there anywhere you can go

and find a hair-netted octogenarian wrangling a walker

and four massive, camp-sized cast iron skillets full

of Sunday dinner fried chicken at 9:00 am

and ask if she’s serving breakfast, then have her say

‘Sure thing, hon, but you’ll have to wait on yourselves’?

Remember how pretty you were? Well, your sweetheart was

beautiful and all you wanted was some

sunnyside up eggs and bacon with hashbrowns,

a white boat of peppery pan gravy,

and a mason jar of homemade apple butter

you’d have to pry the disk of wax out of

and dollop on your toast with a long-shanked teaspoon.

These days Main Street features two antiques emporia,

a coffee shop, and a wine store offering Friday night

tastings of the latest regional Cab Franc cuvée.

The café’s become an office dealing in view lots,

weekend lakeside rentals, and time share condominiums.

That was twenty-five years ago, you tell yourself.

The old chicken-frying woman probably never saw

what’s become of the place, though what with the baskets

of brightly colored artificial geraniums hanging

from the vintage lamp posts and the new pocket park

with a memorial to the loggers of yesteryear,

she’d probably approve. There’s a new high school too,

and according to its electronic marquee sign,

not only is there a girls’ basketball team but they’ve won