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.