You met Richard Feynman at the flea market.
And this wasn’t in some pre-1988
Don’t Worry Be Happy universe.
This was now,
Motherfucker.
Richard Feynman was eyeballing a cardboard box full of canning supplies,
And you were looking for ice skates.
There he was,
Back from the dead.
You had never even heard of the Manhattan Project.
Did you give a rat’s ass for any double slit paradox?
No, you did not.
One dollar to enter.
A hand stamp for re-entry.
You watched briefly
Then said,
“Those rubber seals,
They’re all worn
Out.”
