The doughnut man seemed to turn up
overnight, no advertisement in the paper,
no fliers waving from the wipers of cars,
just the soft, milky glow of a kitchen light
signaling through the dark of early morning,
that heavenly smell wafting all the way
up and down 7th Street, drifting
outward with the smallest of breezes.
No one seemed to know his name,
where he came from or when, or even
whether he spoke English; he simply nodded
when we pointed out how many of each,
his thick fingers, surprisingly delicate,
placing each in a brown paper bag,
sending us kids on our way back home
where whatever small crime we may
have committed earlier in the day would
imediately be forgiven and expunged.
Even the body of Christ could not compete;
even the sun looked brighter and fuller
when shining through the greasy window
of that small bag, its warmth rising,
as if the day were something you could
keep close, hold on to, consume.
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