Pancakes and 11:00 PM smoke

by Poet on the Piano   Oct 19, 2013


The fryer is on,
set to 350 degrees after scrutinizing
the Bisquick box in the semi-dark.

Mother creeps down the stairs..
what's burning?
I point at my mess, half crisp,
half a perfect tan
while heat and smoke
lick my forearms.

It's never too late to make
pancakes, is it?

And who knows how many
I'll eat, or serve to in the morning.
Because as I wrap up
the finished plate in foil,
I ask myself if I unfolded most
of the chocolate chips into
the batter on purpose.

[The smoke alarms never went off,
they didn't detect my secrets].

Lips still have traces of maple syrup,
and I wonder if I'll have to scrub them
again,

only to find they are not sweet underneath,
just chapped and disheartened.

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Latest Comments

  • 11 years ago

    by Redangelwings

    This poem made me smile as I can imagine or the first thing I did was a little kid or teenager. The mess is very child like but I love how you wrote about something so simple. I love the question you ask here though. No I don't believe it is ever too late for pancakes at all. I love the imagerythough. Like the mother creeping down thestairs to check up on the girl. The smell is detailed well as is eeverything haha. I love how you said smoke alarms don't hold your secrets meaning you cooked them well. The ending is so great as well. More child-like then ever. You lost all the maple syrup and not you are sad. I loved the fresh wording you used and what a great idea and title.