Record of My Delights
The doll, a coarse cloth juju
for a species made to measure,
overstuffed belly stitching
burst, and there the Deutschmark stash,
chunky Weimar wadding
when bread cost a million—
one black button eye stared back.
I made room for the beating heart,
the loose cloth stretching over bony feet,
a comfort unexpected.
I am often asked if the money was a problem.
For my part, it was not a problem:
everywhere I go there is bread.
The lost jet of eye space is never mentioned,
only my stylish walk.
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