Donuts

There is a place on Manhattan Ave.

Down on the street

With a view

A little spot called Peter Pan

My morning donut man

Light but filling

Soft but full

Smell of fresh dough walking in

Warming from the thin winter air

Grab a couple of loose Washingtons

Fumbling some change

The pale white aprons fill the counter

They exchange money for food

As I grasp this first-morning donut

I embrace its warmth and familiarity

My teeth rupture the delicate sugar coating

Unleashing the yeast flavor in subtle fashion

In this moment I am home

Wherever that takes me

The sugar hangs on my chin

As I walk back out through the crowded doorway

I am on my way

Back to Brooklyn

Back to life

Breathe it all in

Take one last bite

 

 

 

 

 

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