An Ode to Krisy Cream Doughnut dreams

It was time before the breaking through of the new century.

I do not remember the day. I just remember being summer.

I was living in the low lands of North Carolina with my family before the time of Black Rambos passing past the gates of paradise’s sweet slumber.

I was six at the time. I sat in the back of one of my cousin’s car waiting outside a magical place that was shaped like a house of warmth and compassion. A box was presented to hold for a moment.

It was warm under my thin legs. I wore red short pants that day.

I was told to try one before it got cold. I opened the box and instantly my mouth watered. My stomach responded. I took a warm circle of warmth in my hand that had a hole in the center of it. I took my a bite and nearly burned my fucking tongue.

I didn’t care. I blew on it as I consumed the heavenly delight into my mouth and wanted, no I hungered for more.

It was Krisy.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was a sweet delight.

Burned in my memory is that first taste. Burned in my memory is that hunger for more.

Warm Regards


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