"you know it's real", Nicholas Q
when a fresh memory arrives, two pizzas
exit a kiln to reach this table, seasoned with
raucous laughter and all things misheard.
perhaps it takes three pairs of ears to listen
without intent, or three petite froyos beneath
the skylight. we wander through tunnels, as if
corridors were natural below ground. after
viewing our secret history in books, we leave
before the close, as each memory begins to rust.
time will not falter: for we are individual people
with enough warmth to see each other through.