Zurich, Sunday morning

A waitress in a black tie gave me a blank postcard.
“Keep it,” she said. “A souvenir.”

I sat in the corner. Brass lamps. Marble tables.
Chandeliers threw soft light into the mirrors.

Café Odeon had been here since 1911.
The room barely changed. The lamps shone. The marble held.
Only the menu admitted that time had passed.

Lenin had sat here. Einstein too.
Now there were writers, tourists, regulars. Different arguments, same tables.

My coffee arrived.
I stirred it slowly.

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