by James Babbs
it’s the middle of February
so it could be snowing but
the Beach Boys keep singing
about the sun and the surf
I’m seated near the window
where I can see the interior
of the restaurant reflected
in the rain-soaked glass
so that there’s a second
restaurant identical to
the first one with another
set of customers just
like the other ones and
my other self gazes back at me
holding his own pen and
writing in his own notebook
while eating the same thing as me
chicken taco salad with a
large plate of cheese fries
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