We hadn’t seen it for a couple years, The film being a bit difficult to watch Without dropping a few bucks To stream it in all its black-and-white glory, (A prospect which would have brought a grim smile To a certain white-haired small-town banker) Our laser disc scratched, our VCR beyond obsolete, But there have been enough viewings That certain tableaus (Flower petals strewn, the glycerin tears) Remain as familiar as the views out the front door, And so on a whim we drove up to the quaint burg Which espouses its claim to be Capra’s inspiration With a tenacity which belies the season (Though one look at the bridge which sits astride A wan offshoot of the Erie Canal Is sufficient for a startling bit of déjà vu) Finding ourselves by ourselves in a restaurant (The times after all, and it a weeknight to boot) Surprisingly open, even though the town fathers Had opted hopefully to decorate, as per usual, The village streets to be as Bedford Falls-esque as possible, And as we sipped our soup and munched our salads We mused on how wonder and anxiety Could walk hand-in-hand (As we did on the way in and again on the way out) And though our laughter was a soft, muted thing, It tinkled in the manner of such things Which enabled seraphim to gain their wings.