Donuts

Do they still eat donuts? It’s easy to picture it:

a squad car pulls up to the precinct or station

a cop goes in, heads immediately for the lounge

that small area that smells of the burned coffee

they all complain about but drink, and there on

the counter is the box of donuts. Might be from

Dunkin or, better, that small bakery someone’s

aunt owns or at least knows the owner. No lean

and hungry look about them, some go for jelly

others for glazed or chocolate. Don’t you recall

the pudgy policemen we’d see downtown, always

friendly, knew everyone, and always quick on

the draw when it came to donuts and burned

coffee. You have to wonder, now that you have

a moment, do they still eat donuts, like they did

back when a policeman was a familiar face and

sometimes even smiled.


Gunless

Never owned a gun, my mother said

“no son of mine…” and so I never did.

Never really bothered me either. My

Friends went off hunting and I stayed

Home in my gunless house waiting for

Their stories to unload. Missed that

Part most, the stories that guns give

A person, the hunt, the perfect shot

The pats on the back standing over

The kill, elements we knew from TV

And the movies, so many war stories

Westerns and gangsters, everyone

With a gun, toting or carrying. Knew

All the words, tough masculine stuff,

“make my day” and variations of that.

I grew up in a gunless home, never got

To clean one, load one, aim it, and then

Pull the trigger – and never shot anyone

By accident or on purpose, never stood

Over some slow-moving animal, dead

Now because I had a gun and shot it.


What's Left

On quiet evenings like this

I wait till after dinner


To drag the rubbish and

Recycling down to the end

Of the driveway.

It’s dark enough to go

Almost unnoticed

By neighbors who always

Win the race to be first

With their leavings placed

Out for others to pick through

To pick up, to take away.

We produce so much waste,

The things left over after

We live our daily lives.

We crowd, we fill, we mess

Yes, we stuff, we cram, we jam

We crowd the world with leftovers

With trash, with recycling that

Will never be recycled

With what is left over of our time

Here

We will fill it soon and then we’ll…

J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Kitchen Sink, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood and Highland Park Poetry.