Me and Tupac Shakur
Sat inside a donut shop sharing a dozen
And watching the coffee cool
One by one the box slowly emptied
From the cakes to the crullers and at last the fancies
Pac sighed aloud so I could hear him
"Donuts are communism"
I asked him "Why?"
He said "Better in theory."
We laughed and scratched the sleep from our eyes
He said "This is ridiculous. Twelve is too much; half a dozen wastes our time."
But every time we order twelve thinking we can handle it
And every time we end up pissed because we made our stomachs sick
We both laugh a bit and gingerly sip our coffee
His fingers scrape the table top and he digs in softly
And I watch him there
Carving, scraping, both sitting in silence
As he engraves his name with the word Westside beside it
Underneath the orange veneer of the donut shop gear
There's an earthy brown flesh that excavation makes appear
Year after year Pac and I return there
To the table that he claimed with the magic bench chairs
Chug the last of our coffee and stand to leave
Wave to the clerk, she says goodbye in Chinese
Clutching our sick stomachs we both struggle to speak
Shake our hands, split our ways
And say, "Seeya next week."