HONUTS by Jack Phillips Lowe

After work, Buchman drops in 
at his local watering hole,
a studied dive called 
The Triple Zero, to drown
the day in boilermakers.

Tyson, the bartender, 
polishing a beer mug with 
a stringy red towel, 
inches down to Buchman’s
lonely seat at the end 
of the battered oak counter.

“I can see,” Tyson says, 
“you had another shitty day 
in retail sales. Big surprise.”

“Yeah,” says Buchman, 
between sips of Old Style.

Tyson sets the empty mug down 
on the bar and drapes
the towel over his shoulder.
“You done any thinking about
that million-dollar idea 
I offered you halfsies on?”

Buchman downs a shot of Bushmill’s.
“Which one was that, again?” 

Tyson grimaces and sighs.
“Damn, Buchman, you got to start
thinking big to move up the ladder.
Time’s running out for guys like us. 
Do you think I want to be here,  
pouring drinks, until I die? 

The idea is called. . .Honuts.”

“Honuts,” echoes Buchman.

“Come on, I told you,” says Tyson. 
“A donut shop, staffed only 
by hot chicks with big boobs.
It’s kind of like Hooters—
only with donuts and coffee.
We’d have a few big guys there,
too, in case things got rowdy.”

Buchman sits silently. 

“We’d start small,” says Tyson,
“one or two places. But eventually,
I can see us going nationwide.” 

“No,” says Buchman.

Tyson is a picture of disbelief.
“Why not?” he asks. 

“Because your employees would
neuter you with box cutters—
like I will, if you don’t stop blabbing 
and get your ass back to work!” 
shouts a burly woman, 
from an office doorway 
at the rear of the bar.

“Your boss is calling you,” 
says Buchman,
as he swigs his beer.     

 

Jack Phillips Lowe was born, raised and resides in the Chicago area. His poems have appeared in Cajun Mutt Press, Clutch 2026 and Bold Monkey Review. His most recent poetry chapbook, Brautigan's Blue Moon (Instant Oblivion Press, 2025) is available at lulu.com.

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