Donut, go gentle into that good night:
In middle-age, I beg you, stay away.
I can’t afford to take another bite.
Although you’ve helped to keep my outlook bright
(Along with HBO and chardonnay),
Donut, go gentle into that good night,
Whether you’re jelly, glazed or filled with white;
From diner, bakery or swank café
I can’t afford. To take another bite
Is all I hunger for when you’re in sight,
Despite the heavy price you make me pay.
Donut, go gentle into that good night
Or my circumference will match my height
And I’ll have acne till my dying day.
I can’t afford to take another bite,
Not even on the road — wait, hang a right!
Curse, bless you, Krispy Kreme, soft as soufflé!
Donut, go gentle into that good night?
I can’t afford…? OK, I’ll have a bite.
Timbits, thy name, it is thine enemy:
Thou art delish, like all Tim Hortons’ foods—
What “bits” of Tim, though, make thee? Hand, or foot,
Or neck, or thigh, or — zounds! — some nether part
Belonging to a man? O! pick some other name!
What good’s a name that customers call gross?
By any other word thou’d’st taste more sweet
And by the Dunkin’ Munchkin not be beat.
I felt a Sugar Rush, in my Brain,
Endorphins to and fro;
Kept eating—eating — till it seemed
That Circles of Fried Dough
Were all I’d ever needed —
I’d keep them in my Lap
Instead of Paper, Pen, and Ink —
And skip the writing Crap —
Old fry basket
Dough ring goes in
Sound of my arteries hardening
these donut chips are big chips
they need space to
dunk way down in.
they don’t fit into little
stupid mugs. these chips
aren’t free chips.
you make them from a big stack
of donuts that you have saved,
then sliced, sugared, like so,
then cooked in a press till oh
these chips are crispy chips.
these chips are trippy chips.
i have known them
to put a smile on a woman
with whipped cream on top!
Two donuts served with a cup of joe!
So sorry I could not gobble both
And not feel bloated, I eyed their dough—
Its powdered finish, its unctuous glow—
And guessed which donut I’d be more loath
To never try, and I took a taste
Of one that seemed a better bet
Because it was greasy and glaze-encased,
But ugh, the thing was filled with paste
(garbanzo?) — mealy, yet not quite set,
And I dropped it fast and bit instead
The other, its outside a tempting brown.
Oh, it was spicy! My sinuses bled!
“Ghost-pepper extract,” the waitress said,
And needless to say, I put the thing down.
I soon was telling folks with loud groans,
“Everybody, some useful hints:
When it comes to donuts or ‘cronuts’ or scones,
I’ve learned to avoid the wacky unknowns—
And that has made for less reflux since.”
I saw the best behinds of my generation destroyed by trans fats, awful to picture buck naked, jiggling through Safeway at all hours looking for a carbo fix,
muddleheaded creatives and coders and gig workers hoping to jumpstart their noodles after banging them against their keyboards,
who deadlines and nondeadlines had driven to crossed eyes and e-cigs and procrastination in the cubicles of coworking spaces,
who racked their brains for meme riffs and live tweets while looking longingly over rooftops at real things,
who had once passed their university exams cum laude and summa cum laude after studying among the nation’s top scholars,
who rose unshowered from their laptops in their coffee-stained joggers in the unflattering shadow of overhead tubes for the love of cocoa with alkali alkali agar agar pregelatinized hydrogenated buys that shivered their cellulite down to the last free radical with the absolute heart-pounding belief that this snack run would pump life into their own dadbods & mombods, good to eat a thousand Entenmann’s.
A cruller burned at both ends
Won’t be the best you’ve had,
But, just like sex and pizza, tends
To not be all that bad.