French Bakery

The purple one is blackcurrant; next to it,
pear amandine, passionfruit, chocolate. The trio 
at the corner table under the slowly revolving fan 
are recalling the last time they were actually in 
Paris, before all this political nonsense, 
at a sidewalk cafe—and not at this French bakery 
in the south on a day when temperatures are climbing 
past a hundred degrees. The Sysco food delivery trucks
rumble past; the DoorDash guy comes out of Chipotle 
next door then speeds off in his car. The woman 
tears delicately at her authentic all-butter 
croissant (if the ends are curved inward so it looks 
like a crescent, that isn't the real thing; it may 
have margarine). The man next to her swipes his paper 
napkin across his lips after biting into his cold 
baguette sandwich. The younger woman with them 
points at the suncatcher in the window, twirling on 
a chain festooned with teacup and Eiffel Tower charms.