Donuts ruled the earth
but I was the hole.
The hole was bigger.
Atmospheric.
Created its own weather.
If you looked through it,
like a periscope,
you could view a simple street
lined with pepper trees.
The yellow Helms Bakery truck
peep-peeped up the street.
The man in the paper hat
opened the truck’s door.
Smells of melty fat and sugar
flooded out.
He slid out trays that displayed
fresh glazed donuts.
My chubby hand reached for one.
The donut hole of me dreamed of water,
of floating my sweet self
down the gutter, toward the ocean,
toward China.
There would be no arguing there.
The donut hole me also dreamed
that someone would love me there,
would squeeze my squishy freshness
and I would leave a sugary love crust
on their fingers.
