BACK | CONTENTS | NEXT Puff Piece. My mother gave me powder puffsTo "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 feelThe 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.