Sitting in a cafe' that is neither
Francophone nor stocked replete
with wheat-based confectionary,
the sensations of cheese enlaced
with mustard dance across my tongue.
Ovaled eyes observe.
Spicy tastes give way to easy, easy
evenings of tea and lightly
dusted
sugar.
In this boulangerie that is neither
continental nor sequestering,
golden baked greets sterile light,
eager for the exchange of owner
and home.
wish i was manging on that. nate, your poems are great.
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