Thursday, September 10, 2015
"There is no money in doughnuts,"
the old man explains,
as the paddles turn the golden side up
out of the grease, on the way to the avalanche
We are twenty people deep
in line, with another twenty behind us,
out the door, down the sidewalk.
"My son had a shop once."
He doesn't dwell on this,
just hits the highlights - of near bankruptcy,
housing their family and the benefits
He was in the Navy,
a far cry from the pink shorts his thin legs
poke from, the yellow golf shirt
& grey comb over - but not
quite. He loves his wife
but she doesn't do doughnuts.
These are for the grandkids -
"But if I get a few apple turnovers
they won't touch them,"
a guilty pleasure, afforded a gentler life.
A baker hooks hot doughnuts off the conveyor
into a box - rejecting a few
to make the last trip, off the end of the belt
into a large trash can.
"I wonder how many they waste that way,
"You'd think they could find someone
to eat them."
"Or a soup kitchen."
A baker carries out a tray of fresh bear claws
to placate the ever growing mass of humanity
salivating in line, hopped up on sugar thick air -
"No, I am fine."
"Oh come on. Hold up, my son here wants
Evidently, I have been adopted.
"You could use some more meat on those
"Can't we all?"
Maybe not. Maybe so.
For a lingering moment, he holds my arm
and that is alright --