Through the Donut Hole

Ice clinks in my Hydro Flask.

Wind chimes do their pretty chiming.

A breeze sweeps in

thirsty bees from Griffith Park,

where Pilates princesses sweat

in perfect pink sets.

I soak up Zen at the blue pool,

with three or four TVs blaring

action scenes through open screen doors.

I clutch my pink donut

and float with a forced Duchenne smile,

testing muscles I forgot I had:

Zygomaticus major,

Orbicularis oculi.

Behind my Tom Ford shades,

I watch tired maids

heave buckets of dirty rags,

and sticky-legged men

hoist Amazon deliveries.

But today is all mine—

no pity parties allowed.