the hot sign

you want a donut
badly. all day
and all night
for a week you've
been thinking about
nothing but
donuts. chocolate
covered, glazed.
jelly filled,
long delicate
eclairs and
cinammon donuts
fresh from a hot
oven. your lust
for donuts
has taken over
your mind. you go
online and browse
pastry sites.
clicking on each
image wishing it
was yours to bite
into. your mouth
hangs open like
a madman, drooling
onto your desk.
your stomach
gurgles at the photos
of donuts all in a
row, in neatly
packed boxes.
some sitting alone
on white plates,
with a cup of coffee
beside them. long
ones, short ones,
fat ones without
holes, which aren't
called donuts, but
something else. oh,
how you wish you
had a donut. you put
your hand on the phone
to call your sponser,
but you don't call.
the tempatation is
too great, you've lost
all willpower and
finally you give in.
you put on your loose
fitting pants
and take a drive.
it's time, you
can't hold out any
longer and you go
downtown, and slowly
roll by the donut
shop, staring into
the window, you see
a waitress gently
putting her hands
onto the racks,
dropping
donuts, sometimes
two at a time into
boxes and bags,
but you can
wait a little longer,
and you circle
the block. you are
waiting for
the hot sign
to flash on.