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.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.