After teaching is done,
I'm offered moon cakes:
three squat, yellow suns,
tasting of a primordial fire pits
and unfinished lessons.
On my walk home, I pass slick buildings:
rolls of film overexposed,
stretching beyond vision.
My face in their glass, something time stole.
I wish to be more malleable
like carefully rolled dough.
Full before memory ferments,
before strain and grind
pound layers,
hide yolk,
mask my essence.
I pop another one in my mouth,
but this is no fairy tale.
I am no bigger or shorter,
no, I can not be
transformed by their
innocence.
©2025 | K. F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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