Sunday Morning
With a look like Moses
high on the ridge,
the destination palpable,
paradisal, yet infinitely distant -
Eli gazes into the bag of donuts.
The waxed paper whispers like crepe de Chine.
A ziggurat of chocolate honey-dipped,
mountains of buttermilk snow-capped
with confectioner's sugar or maple creme.
The dark omphalos of the jelly-filled,
blueberry winking from fat white clouds.
``Not before breakfast,''
his mother has decreed.
So his dark eyes stare harder,
his nose lingers at the still-warm bag.
Irresistibly, his hand rises,
slips in - and returns with
one iota of honey
on his fingertip.
