By Amanda Trout
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First: finicky lock, the slate-grey door
swings open to air-conditioner gales
and the lights of the Coca-Cola fridge
we sold our souls to receive. Next,
bag cotton swirls in cherry red, citrus yellow
and let each floating wisp dye your hair.
End with popcorn kernels laved in butter
whose smell skips through the air—scrumptious
summoning—and calls customers to us
early. Hear the rattle at the door, past echo
Hello! What can I get started for you?
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