oh to eat pancakes
delivered at my door
to lie asleep
above the floor
and wake to some joyous scent
of hot butter, like soft cement
to slowly wriggle
and shake my feet
to swallow smells
and raise the sheets
and surrenderring to morning sun
a story unfolding and fresh begun
that moment one decides to move
the sore that only breakfast soothes
the waking minutes to unfold
as one walks slow and old
like sleep has aged
your supple brow
to make it grey and furrowed now
and walk upon the frozen tile
harsh on feet, and then I smile.
To think what I am thinking
to know the things I know
to feel the sugared pancake
digesting down below.
poetry is not dead.
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