I would sit on a wooden bar stool
\nin the doorway to the small office at
\nthe back of the little donut shop
\nI worked at in high school<\/p>\n
the doorjamb, perfect for leaning
\nin boredom, or sleepiness
\nas I awaited fresh customers
\nseeking coffee, crullers<\/p>\n
passing time was easy
\nworking nights, not many folks
\nout, up for fried, sticky, carbs
\nbottomless-styrofoam-cups
\nof twenty-five cent coffee<\/p>\n
to my right, a notepad and pen,
\ncup of Coke, single raised-glazed
\nresting on stainless-steel;
\nshiny, sterile
\nboss\u2019 donut roll-out, cutting
\nsurface by morning,
\nmy writing desk by night<\/p>\n
stanzas and personal passages
\npunctuated by sporadic sales
\nfueled by Donut House regulars;
\nneighborhood cops, bus drivers
\nof the number seven route,
\ndelaying departures for
\na quick cup and a Bismarck;
\npaper-grading college professor,
\nfry cook from the
\nchicken place three doors down
\na nurse who worked nights
\na few locals, just hanging out<\/p>\n
each had stories to tell
\nI always had ears to listen
\npen, paper to retell, transform
\nwhat I heard, what I saw
\nthat old, wooden barstool a
\nguru-rock from which I dispensed
\nconversation, teen wisdom
\nsoaking in more than gave<\/p>\n
every once in a while I can
\nsit on an old, wooden barstool
\nand be back behind that counter
\nwhere the jingling of the bell
\nsignaled a fresh interaction,
\npotential for a new sale and a tale<\/p>\n
and after all these years
\nnotebooks filled, books published
\nthere is no thrill quite like sitting
\nin an old donut shop, writing<\/p>\n
or just puling up an old barstool,
\nsomeplace, because
\nI can still smell the grease<\/p>\n