Safe behind the camouflage
of three squirmy young children,
I myself squirm a bit
on my cheap imitation leather seat
and wonder.

Casting a quick glance
over the curious piles of paper
littering his table,
they appear haphazard,
but he seems to know their order,
seems to have their contents
meticulously organized
in the bookshelves of his mind.

Stray donut crumbs litter my own table,
and appear haphazard,
but I know their order
and meticulously scoop them
into a tidy napkin
as I hastily scan the bookshelves of my own mind,
desperate in my attempt
to make sense
of his seeming nonsense.

He scrawls and scribbles
on the smooth white backs
of those precious papers,
while my kids drool and dribble
on the smooth white glaze
of their precious donuts.

What’s he doing,
I long to discover,
sitting alone,
at a dirty table,
in a donut shop at 10:30 a.m.?

What I am doing,
I long to discover,
sitting alone,
with three now-dirty faces,
in a donut shop at 10:30 a.m.?

It has nothing whatsoever
to do with
donuts.