Puff Piece
My mother gave me powder puffs
To “cook” with in a pan.
I’d gravely fry them by the hour,
As only children can.
Sixty years have come and gone,
Yet deep down I still feel
The world is what’s imaginary;
Powder puffs are real.
John Harris lives in Savannah, Georgia. His poems have appeared in various journals, including Southern Poetry Review.