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Borsodi's Coffee House on Howe 

I own this place—

or it owns me.

Here is where I grew awhile,

stumbling through

the unaware

of this one's style

and paperbound hyperbole

hid within a smile.

Here lies the ghost of LaGalette

while Stiles and stone prevail.

Floorboards bare a cup, a chair

exterior worn pale.

No reading from a further room,

crowded tables, voices, faces

placed between ideal and walls,

steel-string guitar and banjo cases,

espresso steam and talk of war.

Camembert and Grenadine.

Cigarette ashes on the floor.

I turn the knob—

each blade, each sod

and concrete stair

reclaim a part of me.

Not found in deed

of form or site,

still, more the rightful heir.

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