Donuts at Balboa Street Laundry

On Sundays we walk to the Laundromat
And you buy me melting glazed donuts
and milk with a straw to keep me calm
while I sit on my favorite beige dryer
bouncing my jelly sandals against the vibrating metal.

While you crouch in the corner with your nursing books
and vacantly rub your lashes,
wishing that the sound of the dryer
were only a whir in the basement
and that you could brush the bangs from my eyes
while we eat donuts together at the kitchen table,

I wish that daddy could’ve seen how pretty you are with rainbow lint in your hair,
and that the warmth at my bottom never goes away
and that you never forget how to kiss the crusted sugar on my lips.




*This is my poetry. Please do not copy the text, reuse it or plagiarize. Thanks!