Morning Songs

Back in the days when I was known as "The Cake Man" among my co-workers, it was, as you might guess, my favorite food. Any kind of cake could get my attention ... and have me reaching for a fork at the same time.

Even the smell of a freshly-baked cake would catch my attention as little else could.

I still relish the smell of that now-forbidden food.

Where am I going with this? I'm wandering just a bit down memory lane. Just as I still relish the smell of a freshly-baked cake, I relish old memories. They don't feed me like present events do, but they bring me comfort ... and I like that.

I certainly don't live in the past ... any more than I can experience a future which hasn't arrived yet. I do like to pay visits to some events of the past, though ... just like I enjoy "visits" to the possibilities of a future which lies vaguely ahead somewhere out there.

That said, the poem:

MORNING SONGS

Cold mornings,

when I fold

my towel, drape it

again on the rack,

I sometimes hear

the music of eggs

sizzling, gravy

burbling softly

in the frying pan,

coffee perking,

leaping against

its knobbed glass

ceiling, muttering

in darkening tones,

and sometimes

I catch the scent

of that kitchen,

that magic time

so distant, but

still wafting.

© 1998

(originally published in Moose Bound Press)

Today's word: sizzling

Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:

Mmmmm ... I smell that coffee again, June.

Love that comment, Magran ... you had me going there ... all the way to the punchline. Thanks.