Powdered Doughnuts

The white cardboard barges sat nearly empty.
The only doughnuts left, powdered…
I was obviously late for work.

The snowflake sugar doesn’t wear well on brown.
I bite into one and stick my neck out like a turkey,
but still the dust coating of a cream filled

lands on my protruded uniformed gut and I react.
Brushing it off only works most of it in
like ladies cheekbones in the powder room.

I saw all the powdered doughnuts and cursed.
I grabbed one after another and began dabbing,
trying to blend in the pale spot on my belly.

Soon my midriff transformed into a snow drift.
I patted down my cheeks and my underarms.
I dusted my already salt and pepper hair.

I tapped the pastries like long ashes
of a cigarette over the toe tips of my boots
then stooped down to polish them.

I felt like corporal Klinger from M*A*S*H,
but instead of dressing in drag,
I made an attempt at Snow Queen.

I hoped to be sent home in a straight jacket,
a casualty of the Christmas rush,
a glazed over fried cake.

My manager handed me a cup of coffee…
“Cream?”

Comments

  1. Oh, your poem made me hungry! The bad think about powered doughnuts is that they always leave evidence when you eat them!

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