The shop
at the corner of my childhood
has stopped selling Danish pastry
and coco macrons
milk and cheese.
The room is bare
The cheese cutter is no longer there
And the old-fashioned weight
Doesn’t pling.
There is no butter
And no one asks why?
The bell that rang when opening
The shop's door
Doesn’t ring anymore
The shop is overtaken by time.
Perhaps someone will buy the shop
Make a wine bar
Making us into middle-class alcoholics
I have sudden hunger for Danish pastry.