The morning after
is no time for sifting flour.
Heaved from the sack, it thuds
and scatters on the bowl's round base.
The egg drops yellow
and the whisk turns milk
in torrents through the slipping peaks.
Later, flung on molten butter
pale imperfect circles
quietly erupt in bubbles
and I turn them out in hot heaps
with bacon, maple, salt and sweet
and needed. Eat with industry.
The kitchen battered utterly.
Gosh.
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