Mornings I hear the

whoosh of cars trucks & buses on

the damp windy boulevards

Sometimes I wonder about

waffles & wish I’d

paid more attention when she was

still here. It’s called a waffle iron,

she’d whisper as if I couldn’t

be trusted

And I always wanted at least three –

hot enough to make butter scream &

to bubble the syrup

but cool enough to eat after stirring

my mug of black coffee

Now there’s only this one-eyed cat

knocking around an

empty beer can in the dark corner &

these two eggs that I’m afraid to crack

 

 

Mike Faran lives and writes poetry in California. He is a frequent contributor to Trajectory.