ALL THAT MISSING DOUGH

by Lindsay Preston

My mouth is ready for Chocolate Glaze when

suddenly

the hole in the middle consumes me;

all that missing dough.

What if I go and bang on the counter,

pace the shop and

demand the rest of the doughnut?

No. I'll sit in the doorway, arms folded, mouth shut -

Mr. Doughnut Gandhi.

Gandhi with a twist:

a match and a bucket of gasoline.

And when they call the cops

I'll douse myself, hold up the match.

A cop will come with siren wailing,

and see the doughnut dripping gas, the quivering match.

He'll call for backup.

The whole force will back him up.

'Cause cops love doughnuts, including the holes.

Reminds them of the rings in their handcuffs,

the ones they'll clamp, bruise my wrist to the bone.

And I'll kick and scream on national TV, "You're hurting me!"

Mom,

home in her rocking chair, reading the anchorman's lips,

will weep at 6:02, cardiac arrest at 6:03.

Dad,

slumped at the kitchen table, will

savour his flask of Lemon Gin.

Sip slow through a yellow straw,

drink the melted cubes,

eyes fired on the lemon section sliced thin and

stuck on the rim of the glass.

The bottle dry, he'll suck lemon till

there's nothing left but peal.

He'll make a ring with the peal, and

stare through the hole

grinning at Mom who

appears to have fallen asleep to the news.

Dad, feigning deaf, will ignore the phone.

Released on bail I'll

open the door to the reek of death,

Mom in her rocker in rigor mortis.

Now I've lost my appetite,

so filled with the hole I

can't even eat the ring.

Should have ordered Boston Cream.