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.