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Is on a small side street a few miles from his house.
“What wonders it has,” he tells me,
As if he were describing King Arthur’s castle,
Or the Impressionist Wing of London’s National Gallery,
Instead of a family-run shop whose back door opens onto a modest rose garden
Where a few stray cats spend their afternoons chasing butterflies
“Just last week I found an old translation of Saadi’s The Bustan
That I hadn’t seen since I was a child.
I spent half the night reading through it,
And by 2am,
I was twelve years old again,
And the wind outside of my window was the voice of my mother
Calling me home for dinner.”
Copyright 2018 Kareem Tayyar