— an ode to Krispy Kreme Donuts
They have no ends, no centers.
Angelically white, they rise.
They expand before our eyes—
light, lithe, gracefully bloated.
Hillbilly bagels begin their float
down the river of hot oil,
wafting, as we are watching.
They are casually comforting
as they fry—tan, taut yet tender.
Midway, midstream, they execute
their athletically perfect flip,
effortless as young gymnasts,
as surfers on white wave tips.
Half naked for now, unsuited,
half-pale, they seek an evenness
in tint. They take their sweet time
before they come to us hot
off the rollers through the shower
of molten sugar, a waterfall
of nearly supernatural
supersaturation. Their glaze
as we gaze, becomes opaque
like the windows on summer days.
I’ll down a dozen before daybreak.
Even if I lost all my teeth,
I would still keep my sweet tooth.
If I die of cardiac arrest,
at least I will have had the best
last meal. Not that I’m asking
to die, but that’s the honest truth.
Paul Jones has published poetry in many journals including Poetry, River Heron Review, Red Fez, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Broadkill Review as well as in cookbooks, in travel anthologies, in collections about passion, love, and in The Best American Erotic Poems: 1800 – Present (from Scribner). Recently, he was nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Web Awards. His chapbook is What the Welsh and Chinese Have in Common.
A manuscript of his poems crashed on the moon’s surface in 2019.