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.

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