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William Doreski  




       Donut Shop, Arizona   



Two little tables pushed together. A blank rectangle hung on a blank wall. No wonder you’re speechless. From the fryers in the rear, the donuts arrive hissing with fat. Finding a place to sit requires some thought. The corner of the room intrudes, and you won’t choose between plain cake and honey glazed. I prefer decaf and a cruller, but mindful of the police presence or absence you sip black high-test and ask for a blueberry muffin. The blank wall, blank painting (if it is a painting), and awkward not-quite-right-angle corner create a space that reminds us of the basement of that bookstore where old novels go to die. Raintree County, Of Time and the River, The Good Earth, Giant, and other serious tomes still languish there, unloved but not unread. My cruller is good, fresh and crunchy. Taste it. You’ll see.












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