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.
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