Get Your Premium Membership

Short Stack

The Restaurant Menu has a picture. Three golden brown Pancakes A large corn colored slice of butter Melting on top running over the sides. Griddle Cakes doing a Nathalie Wood impersonation Drowning in a sea of thick maple syrup Cartoon like ribbons of aroma rising upward. The old man made them every Sunday morning before church. Which he never attended Black hair slicked back Partially stained white Dago-Tee Cigarette dangling from his lips. The ash worming longer with each Popeye exhale From the side of his mouth Large bowl on his left hip Attacking the batter with grunts of enthusiasm. Tattoos on his arms flexing larger then smaller Giving the appearance they were dancing. Tatted when he was a Cook in the Navy During World War II. I imagined him storming the beaches of the South Pacific With spatula in hand "Don't need to cut'em with a damn knife. Use your fork " He'd holler wrestling the knife from my hand Then throwing it into the sink. Slapping the back of my head in anger No Waitress wait! I'll have the Waffles instead With strawberries if you have them. Yes, Waffles We never had a Waffle Iron.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2021




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.