Early the other day, while I was reading the nature poet Pattiann Rogers, my pancakes got a bit scorched in the griddle. I probably should not mention my name in the same post as Pattiann Rogers, lest comparisons be made, but the incident reminded me of this poem I wrote at this time last year.

Breakfast at My House

I am eating poems for breakfast.

Giraffes, dragonflies, and polar bears stalk
my kitchen. It is spring, it is winter, it is sunset, it is
too late – another burned pancake
goes in the trash.

I ponder food as a metaphor for wisdom while the cat
chows down on the scrambled tofu. The poignancy of life’s
impermanence hits home as the coffee
grows cold.

You can’t eat poetry, said my mother, but
I know you can, because I know what poetry
tastes like. It is soggy cereal and scorched potatoes.
It is charred polenta. It is over-steeped tea.

Millions of people
are eating poems for breakfast, and it is
the only meal that leaves you
really full.