Walking into the cozy French café

might stir a whirlwind of lost memories

long forgotten, like the postcards

from Nice and Paris, fluttering into view,

that I cherished and burned a lifetime ago.


Or Le Moulin, playing softly in the rafters

might remind you of a dance we shared at midnight

to a song that wafted through the window shutters,

reverberating into the walls of the wood apartment.


Or the booths might do it.

Like Dorothy in her bedroom,

those red cushions will lift you off to Oz,

where the echoes of laughter sit, waiting

for the ghost of her to apparate across from you,


but then the server comes crashing down

like a house dropped from a million miles above

ripping you from your fantasy

as if you had stolen their most precious pair of shoes.



Hello there!


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