When Dad Made Breakfast
When dad made breakfast, he always fried lots of bacon,
crackling and popping in the pan,
It scented the air, juicy and crisp, always beckoning.
Then, he piled the dark gnarled strands on a plate.
I became one of Pavlov’s frothing dogs.
When dad made breakfast, he fried a dozen eggs.
They were always over easy with lots of pepper.
No one expected anything else.
And yes, he piled them on another plate.
I added salt and ate 3, sometimes even 4.
When dad made breakfast, he toasted lots of bread,
buttering each slice with attention.
The yellow melting evenly over browned pieces,
I smeared them with jelly or honey.
We all sat with aspiring pallets at our
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2020
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.