Meredith Ackroyd, "Doughnut Days"

[thepuddlejumper]

You could always tell the doughnut days
as the bus rolled by the old ConAgra frozen foods plant.
Instead of the sour stench of brussels sprouts
or the gravy-thick stewing of country-fried steaks,
the air was filled with the spicy bloom
of cinnamon, sugar, and cake.

Those were days made for children
riding in buses on brown plastic seats,
lunchboxes clutched in our hands.
As the bus rolled by, we filled our lungs deep
with the scent of breakfast baking,
with the sweetness of sugared rings of rising dough.