On certain Saturdays I go to
Lynnwood
To eat donuts at Winchell’s,
I try to write
Something poetic between
decaf coffee
And chocolate glazed bites.
There are always young boys
alone with fathers:
Sons clamber over yellows
stools while their dads
Juggle orange juice, maple
bars and cake donuts
Trying to find seats.
Dads rely on their eyes to
steer curious
Versions of Godzilla to
their proper place,
If only to finish the orange
juice. Eyes are
Very weak leashes.
I try not to smile in secret
orange
Conspiracy hearing bubbling
followed
By “Jason, please don’t do
that.” Then followed by
Some more bubbling.
Somewhere between French
Cruller crumbs and napkins
There must be some baker
making sons become
Men for their sons again;
donuts beatify
Saturday loving.
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