Each day of each month

like Odysseus with his sirens

I’d hear pastries calling, “Come over! Come over!”

and I’d picture glazed and blueberry

doughnuts, almond croissants and cinnamon

coffee rolls, apple fritters and chocolate

scones, and I feared an international crisis

if I ever said no to a Bavarian cream.

Sometimes at night with the moon white

as a powdered sugar munchkin

I’d wake and worry there was one

lonely toasted coconut doughnut left

in a tray all by himself and charity

would demand I get dressed, cross the street

and eat him. Oh, that year of Christmas

tree cookies, Old Glory sprinkles

on 4th of July muffins, and the faith

inspiring Ash Wednesday hot cross buns

that made me thank God for counter girls

who saved my seat by the window, bakers

who took midnight requests, and for Macy’s

who sold expandable stretch waist jeans.

 

This poem first appeared in The Stillwater Review.

Used here with the author’s permission