Mon., Mar. 16

Pancake breakfasts
mark this spring and all my eras;
holding mom's hand,
walking under a giant moosehead
and past a picture of Mooseheart,
black and white from the air,
modern and ancient all at once.
Herding my brothers into a school,
Jaycees in yellow vests
stabbing sausage, handing out
pints of milk.
Helping at the counter,
wearing my scout uniform,
filling up syrup containers,
waiting for my family to show up.
Walking in the kitchen early,
mixing up the batter,
calling home to ask my wife
"how many pounds of sausage can we store?"
I'm easier now with pancakes on the grill,
now i don't have to watch or tend
the bubbles in the batter
quite so closely; i can talk,
and watch the passing crowd,
almost as closely as i did under Mooseheart,
holding my mother's hand,
wondering why so many people
suddenly all wanted pancakes,
and why they had tickets here,
not a cash register.