I am the sprinkled donut from Marie’s,
As sweet as icing and soft as the man
Who gave you cash so you could purchase me,
The one with whom you shared a short romance.
Your stomach hurt when you got to the park.
You said the macchiato from the shop
Across the street was, maybe, just too harsh,
But maybe I, the donut, made your stomach throb.
I’m not sure if you finished me, or what
You did with me when you could take no more.
It’s dark in here, so maybe it’s your gut,
Or maybe it’s the garbage can beside the door.
I’ll be okay. My sprinkles are abut.
I’ll wait to hear you say, “wherefore art though donut?”