the bakery
you remember. the smell
walking
by on your way to school.
the air
warm
with cinnamon
and dough. peering
through the window
with cupped hands at
the pastries, donuts.
the old man in his white
apron, tired
already at 7 am.
the bell above
the door swinging
open.
digging
deep into your dungaree
pockets
for enough change to buy
just one,
chocolate covered,
cream filled
without a hole.
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