Cafes on Main Street

Cafes on Main Street

Maria knows what I’m talking about

“they’re cafes but they’re not your cafes”

I have tried, walked Main Street, tried cup after

cup but I want back the tall baristas,

my raspberry chocolate truffle, iced, when it’s hot

out and Conor Oberst always on the radio

The cafes here smell different I say, my steps sound

different on their floors, the world is hollowed out

chocolate eggs at Easter and the bodies left by cicadas

remind me of Star Trek, that’s a conversation

I’ve had in my café, and the time we wanted to write

a collection of ant stories, the antology, I want back

black-and-white cookies that are too expensive and

not as good as I bake myself but still in plastic, wrapped

tight, they look so promising

I don’t lean against the café counters here, don’t

keep a punch card in my coat pocket, the cafes here

aren’t ones I dream about and that is it

I don’t want the city back, my café back, I want

back the city I used to dream, I haven’t been there

in months, the one where the street dipped into the lake

and the shops sold secrets, always to the lowest

bidder, and the dream people I loved

had birds living in their chests, their songs

so loud when ear was pressed to skin, and I think

I dreamed last night I was in a café

in some city I woke up in and the coffee

was weak


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