I’m poised to make you pancakes,
Very early tomorrow morning,
Before the dog’s fully awakened,
Before the phone’s rung even once.
Blueberries I’ll stir into the batter
Just until I stroke a purple streak.
I’ll pour a perfect pentagram
Of slowly spreading circles
Bubbling from the griddle’s heat,
And fry thin slices of bacon
In my mother’s battered skillet
While the coffee sings in my blood,
And I await your step on the stairs.
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