chinese donuts

the snow this year will be sugar.
i'm promising you & we
can go out into the little yard
& pick up fresh chinese donuts 
from the stoop-- still hot 
& crisp & golden. the heat lamp god.
the silver buffet tray bed.
a pair of serving tongs 
to pick up tongues. 
tell me another story about
fried rice & fork & being
young enough to fit inside
a father's take out box.
dad is a general tso man,
a lost pair of broccoli. 
licking sugar off fingers,
off windowsills, off foreheads.
i hope you like what 
i've done with winter. 
& we'll laugh at 
the grit under out shoes,
throw balls of dough at
each other & the windows
of all the empty houses,
their owners all frantic,
sweeping the sugar off their
porches & out of their
children's mouths.
the red eyebrow restaurant
on main st is where we used
to go. there were paintings
of herons peeling off 
the walls, koi in the sinks
& toilets. the fish dressing me 
in fins. the luck cat's
paw knocking infinitely,
a substitute for time. 
there mom would watch me
as i picked the vegetables
out of the lo mein,
only eating the mini corns.
we weren't careful enough
& the whole world became 
a chinese donut. & next with 
the moon & the sun;
leaving us dark & 
warm & fried. reaching
down to the earth 
to grab a handful of
sweet sugared dough,
i feed you gentle &
we share father stories
again, only this time
with gold in our mouths,
koi flopping on the sidewalk,
sugar under fingernails.