Coconut macaroons she sold, the nice little girl at the cake shop,
I was eating macaroons every day, but Sundays when the shop
shut and I pined for Monday. My sister said I was in love with
the shop assistant, which I angrily denied, I never spoke to her
except placing my order of seven coco macaroons and I avoided
looking at her. Everything comes to an end, one day she wasn´t
there so I didn´t bother asking for my macaroons, bought a loaf
instead… But coconuts followed me around, in Jamaica I used to
drink its milk early in the morning before going on board to start
the tedious work of making breakfast for a sullen crew and I was
smelling of fragrance of love made in nights of succulence.
Years roll on bloody unstoppable; whatever I do, there will always
be a boring Sunday, followed by the promises a Monday brings.
Fifty years later I met a woman of full years, her father had had
a coconut farm in Congo and like me she loved macaroons.
