by Sarah Whiteside (’24)

Strolling up the hill and past the light

We grab a bite and sit down to write

A foreign place turned into home

Sipping the same old coffee with foam

A friend arrives and grabs a seat

She complains of the afternoon heat

—–

The room hums with melancholic tunes

Similar to the sound of rain on cloudy afternoons

Wavering shadows dance around the room

As an employee dusts the bookcase with a broom

A peaceful energy hangs around,

You feel comforted by this small, old town

—–

You reminisce of bittersweet memories

Smiling as you recall trips to foreign countries

Pen to paper, creativity flows

and you begin to compose

Time falls short and you wrap up the day

Knowing that you’ll be back next Sunday