Wound In Cellophane - Poem by Donal Mahoney
The older women come to coffee
with cookies wound in cellophane.
They talk of children
or their children's children
or their garden.
Or they simply sew
and watch the young girls trickle in,
buy berry rolls and coffee,
nibble, sip, lick fingers, blow
small parachutes of smoke,
and laugh a young girl's
world of willy-nilly.
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