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What we carried in our pockets
Was the business of those days
While our mothers, locked in closets
Of our making, hid away.
Our daughters fill their pockets
With their business, none of ours;
Their mothers, locked in closets,
Count the leaden, ticking hours.
We care too much for pockets --
What they carry, what they hold.
And we spend our store of living
Getting even, getting old.
