Prose Poem

Everyone kept aging. I was young and then I was old, and I couldn’t remember which I’d been first. We all met at a café every morning to compare faces. Hers was not the face I remember; his was his, but like vinyl too close to a fire, or like silly putty on an Archie comic. A war ended while we ordered. It took a lifetime for coffee to arrive, bitter and out of breath, trembling with any slight movement.