Food Memories

Somewhere between experience and imagination
lies a memory of the cafe du parc on a random street in France.
And I still sit there, camera hanging around my neck and folded up
map in my backpack.
Just plain reeking of foreign tourist with my broken French and
Translator always at the ready on my phone.
But for a moment I am neither American nor French.
I am human as my fingers pull apart the softly crackling croissant
still warm to the touch.
And as buttery flames touch my tongue and tingle my sense of taste,
I am reminded of why it is beautiful to be human.

Written for "Promptly Poetry Challenge"  week 38
Prompt:an image of a cafe

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