Dawn Donuts
Dan Kaufman
I didn’t figure my universe then
as donut shaped, a single surface torus,
iced. Predawn, I’d slip the grip of her Berkeley bed
for Petaluma in my postal blues,
two donuts waxy-sacked beside me
as I drove the arc of an exitless bridge,
my fingers licked innocent, obeying
what I couldn’t kick. Clocking in,
then endless letters later out, my sleepless body
spent. Those days I plied a quirked geometry,
her siren spacetime folding me into confection,
sugar shapes that jacked my flexes. One maple,
one glazed, empty sweetness from Derby Donuts,
the sticky disorienting business
bathed in buzz fluorescence. “Keep the change,”I’d mumble,
extending my dollar to the turbaned baker, who,
seeing this dependence, blessed me.
Poet’s Bio
Dan Kaufman has lived in southern Oregon’s Rogue valley since 2013. His poetry has appeared in Jefferson Journal, Sudden Meteors, Light Rising, Verseweavers, Sky Island Journal and Windfall. In his twenties, Dan trekked the Pakistani Hindu Kush. In his seventies, it’s Kilimanjaro on his treadmill.
Judge’s Comments – Andrea Hollander
The conversational tone, precise diction, and snappy rhythms of “Dawn Donuts” kept me highly engaged. Wish I could hear this poet recite the poem; it begs to be read aloud, and I did—more than a few times.