round tin of cookies
from
Swiss colony arrives
in the mail.
small
crumbly things,
factory wares,
nestled into paper cups.
my father sends it every year.
sometimes
i open it
and nibble on
selected ones, but for
the most part
they're hard
and stale.
i feel bad about regifting
them, but i do.
it truly is, though,
the thought that counts.
i'll miss these tins
at some point.
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