We buy doughnuts — balloons of yeast on Sunday,
vanilla icing with rainbow sprinkles,
inner tubes taut with chocolate cream lay
together – powdered sugar mingles
with glazes hardened against cardboard.
Caramel-colored custard sits in clumps
between cinnamon twists and rock cake hoard.
We stop for gas beside self-serve pumps.
An old man curb-sits, smokes a cigarette,
and leans against a sleeping bag, his bed.
He tries to catch the eyes of those set
on paying for gas or watching the sun rise red.
Dad hands him the box as we walk past,
my eight-year mind confused, my mood downcast.