Sunday Donut

"Hi, Dad. Did they bring your Sunday donut?"
"No." He thought he shouldn't have shown it;
the anger, the loneliness that defined part
of him in this place because it bit his heart.

Sky's blue and grand. Love's gone. Flying free;
but when could he eternally flee? "Hi, Bree."
A Sunday donut.

I'm like The Old Man "in" the Sea; he
thought of Hemingway's book, saltily.
Daughter Bree knew of his dessert days;
and all the nurses knew about his ways.

If he was good today, a Sunday
donut would find him the usual way.
He knew it.

There'd been a day, always in May,
when the sky was bright with sun rays
that he'd indulged in careful horse play.
He remembered East Harbor bay.

If he could stray far from his way today,
he'd not be able to sadly say, "Tomorrow."
He wished it.

He remembered those times past;
all he ever had to do was ask,
and Scoot was ready to begin play.
It was always his baby boy's way.

"Where's Scoot?" he asked Bree.
"Oh, Dad, he's died, don't you see?"
Well, donut Sunday.

His eyes turned up, scanned across the sky,
and his heart thumped, recalling a lullaby.
In a cloud, he saw an old man and a dandy.
He stroked a lively fiddle for his glowing Candy.

He turned to Bree, his eyes nearly bleeding.
"Mom's gone, too." Her eyes were pleading.
He hated it.

To paraphrase you, Rod McKuen, my friend:
It's that you loved that's important in the end.
Sky's turned gray and empty, he thought as he looked.
All the while he knew his thoughts were booked.

Trying to remember. Birds fly...high! The sky and he
would be okay, content with how he could really be.
Sunday donut.

Sunday donut today seemed enough no longer;
he wondered if he'd ever be actually stronger,
strong enough to flee, return to his old "me".
But there was no escaping his current he.

And he interpreted that much, he knew it,
no matter which way they had it finally writ.
Just Sunday donut.