Spoiler! :
Don't drabble me your playful nothings
when I am here for the blood, sweat, and tears
of a hard hockey taped, dog chewed,
electrical hiccuped life that's been forgotten
twice, and now resides at the bottom
of the Lost and Found in a Holiday Inn.
The first time we went back for it,
the second, we bought a new one at Costco
when we finally figured out that it was Walmart
but with a Kroger twist and all the convenience
of a tiny little Kmart. Maybe you don't remember
when before you had a chest to heave,
you had a hoola-hoop to twist about your tiny waist
and all the girls would laugh at you, if you couldn't get it up.
This was before up meant something more than the sky
above the ground, closer to your head than the floor
and awake, like cinnamon on the griddle or bacon and
sausage, when one of them is home for the first time
in years, making breakfast.
That thought was jaded for me
when I was only fourteen, stolen away to mean something
harder, than love for pancakes or oatmeal or eggs
or a warm embrace of a mother or father home on the weekend.
I say only when so many
more have lost it sooner, or
never had it to begin with.
I'd say I'm sorry to them
but in the end, what does that matter?
I still can't wash the rainbow upon a page
and call it magic just because it splurges
from my throat like a phlegm-filled masterpiece
a loogy for the ceiling to fall upon my teacher's head
or land in that prat's cup two hours later
and they'll never even know.
No, that is not my game.
My play is a wake up call to all the quiet sounds
digging into your brain, making you wonder
why is that beautiful and not the etchings
engraved in every moment of every day?
Every breath you take, no, I won't say
"every move you make" because Honestly,
I won't watch you, I'd rather you watch yourself
and feel the life boil in your gut as you remember
that special breakfast. For me
it was home, waking up with an impatient mother
wanting to drag us out of beds by our noses.
She was always patient enough to drag us out of bed
by our sense of smell and not by grabbing them,
and when we got a puppy, he was our wake up call,
sent sprawling over us, elbowing our stomachs
scratching and pawing up our legs,
to punch his fistlike nose into our sides
and wiggle it like a worm searching for the sanctuary of dirt
because she'd thrown a treat on the bed
and he never did have a very good sense of smell.
We did, we'd come downstairs racing one another
to try to be the first one to get a pancake
or sausage and pancakes, or pancakes with syrup
and brown sugar, or powdered sugar, that was always the best
but her eggs worked just as well. It wasn't until I was eighteen
she told me I wasn't smelling pancake, no, I was smelling something
else, something golden brown and rich with life from everywhere
a spice we mixed with salt and knew as well as breath
for it's vanishing act, the first thing we ever learned to make
was Cinnamon Sugar to put on our toast.
I think now he taught us that
to always have a running supply.
Such is the love of breakfast time.
when I am here for the blood, sweat, and tears
of a hard hockey taped, dog chewed,
electrical hiccuped life that's been forgotten
twice, and now resides at the bottom
of the Lost and Found in a Holiday Inn.
The first time we went back for it,
the second, we bought a new one at Costco
when we finally figured out that it was Walmart
but with a Kroger twist and all the convenience
of a tiny little Kmart. Maybe you don't remember
when before you had a chest to heave,
you had a hoola-hoop to twist about your tiny waist
and all the girls would laugh at you, if you couldn't get it up.
This was before up meant something more than the sky
above the ground, closer to your head than the floor
and awake, like cinnamon on the griddle or bacon and
sausage, when one of them is home for the first time
in years, making breakfast.
That thought was jaded for me
when I was only fourteen, stolen away to mean something
harder, than love for pancakes or oatmeal or eggs
or a warm embrace of a mother or father home on the weekend.
I say only when so many
more have lost it sooner, or
never had it to begin with.
I'd say I'm sorry to them
but in the end, what does that matter?
I still can't wash the rainbow upon a page
and call it magic just because it splurges
from my throat like a phlegm-filled masterpiece
a loogy for the ceiling to fall upon my teacher's head
or land in that prat's cup two hours later
and they'll never even know.
No, that is not my game.
My play is a wake up call to all the quiet sounds
digging into your brain, making you wonder
why is that beautiful and not the etchings
engraved in every moment of every day?
Every breath you take, no, I won't say
"every move you make" because Honestly,
I won't watch you, I'd rather you watch yourself
and feel the life boil in your gut as you remember
that special breakfast. For me
it was home, waking up with an impatient mother
wanting to drag us out of beds by our noses.
She was always patient enough to drag us out of bed
by our sense of smell and not by grabbing them,
and when we got a puppy, he was our wake up call,
sent sprawling over us, elbowing our stomachs
scratching and pawing up our legs,
to punch his fistlike nose into our sides
and wiggle it like a worm searching for the sanctuary of dirt
because she'd thrown a treat on the bed
and he never did have a very good sense of smell.
We did, we'd come downstairs racing one another
to try to be the first one to get a pancake
or sausage and pancakes, or pancakes with syrup
and brown sugar, or powdered sugar, that was always the best
but her eggs worked just as well. It wasn't until I was eighteen
she told me I wasn't smelling pancake, no, I was smelling something
else, something golden brown and rich with life from everywhere
a spice we mixed with salt and knew as well as breath
for it's vanishing act, the first thing we ever learned to make
was Cinnamon Sugar to put on our toast.
I think now he taught us that
to always have a running supply.
Such is the love of breakfast time.
Gender:
Points: 1883
Reviews: 806