the door’s ajar
that sweet jar the one
on its side behind the counter
the one with the screw lid
the one a hand could reach into
and grasp a surfeit of smiles
coated with icing sugar days tipped
into a paper bag as thin as time’s turning
the door poured with sunshine
gathered friends set off
way off of course
there’s no point in waiting
we will be ages and ages
in aging
and yet
have a sweet
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