The pure white dough stretched over the counter like skin
Skin over bones as thin as paper.
An old man rolls the sheets with hands
Bare, and sticky, covered with flour.
I sit at the table filling circular pieces
with potatoes and cheese still warm from the pot
Forming little crescent moons
Pinched closed and stuck together, merging the dough.
I sit and continue pressing the edges as he smiles.
I can hear the sputtering pan on the stove,
frying the perfect pillows of dough
In a slippery yellow maragarine, obstructed with sweet onions
That splatter oily droplets over the grates.
The heat pours from the pan, permeating through the kitchen
turning cheeks the shade of a rose.