The rain, the drops fall colored like Champagne
With light about a bakery unspun
In softened smells, of baked things in the rain
On gutters, sidewalks, down umbrellas, run
A shadow sprints, in bleary-eyed mystique
To headlights, glazéd donut holes held dear
The sugar sand stuck strong upon his cheek
Gets wet and slips, a batch of sweetened tears
The oven glow, like candlelight, a score
Of crullers, baked, three-fifty-five degrees
Requested by some someone at the door
Who dares to dash, but asks, “Another, please”
And here stand I, in rain that’s just begun
Content to catch the drops of cinnamon