that afternoon (turned into evening)
spent over tea, long cold
moving tables to escape the setting sun
laughing in that small town cafe -
I had never seen before
but you knew everyone
I remember a story
about a woman with a blue sword
who built a railroad.
a memory detached,
never to be pinned to a title again,
only known as fiction -
because of unlikeliness
like that story;
I remember your smiling face -
revolution, and the epistemology of soup.
will I ever find that cafe again?
(with you inside)