France.

Last night I was in Paris.

I walked along the lines of the underground metro, up some stairs.

Teacup chairs waiting for me,

with one strap to hold you in.

It took me to the city center. My uncle was there.

It’s awfully expensive to go to school, the commute is hell.

I ran carefully across the long stretched out streets of Paris.

Hopping cobblestones.

I paused in the center of the road on copper statues.

The cars veered around on their natural path.

I found a food cart. I knew this food cart.

Not in dream-world but somewhere tucked away

back in my head.

Even though I’ve never been there before,

I go there every time I dream of Paris.

The same woman is working there.

I tell her “I come here every time I visit”

she smiles, she offers me a menu.

I ask her what is small, a snack.

She pulls some food out for me, and a coke.

“Just like you have at home.” She says.

She always talks to me in English

even though I’m trying to form the words in French.

A map forms in my head of all these places.

The bookstore around the corner.

Expanding floor to floor or old and dusty

relics in another language.

I’ve never been here before.

Why do I know it?

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