Sometimes I think real life
only takes place in cafes,
those reflective islands
in the middle of the stream
...
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This is whimsical and thought provoking. I vote for a really swell restaurant (as opposed to a cafe) where their hallandaise sauce melts in your mouth and the lobster is fresh from the Atlantic. (And white linens on the table/beds.) Good poem. Raynette
somehow, it is not there yet.