Mornings I hear the
whoosh of cars trucks & buses on
the damp windy boulevards
Sometimes I wonder about
waffles & wish I’d
paid more attention when she was
still here. It’s called a waffle iron,
she’d whisper as if I couldn’t
be trusted
And I always wanted at least three –
hot enough to make butter scream &
to bubble the syrup
but cool enough to eat after stirring
my mug of black coffee
Now there’s only this one-eyed cat
knocking around an
empty beer can in the dark corner &
these two eggs that I’m afraid to crack
Mike Faran spent his childhood in the UK. After his return to California, he served a four-year stint in the USAF and then went on to graduate from Cal State Fullerton. His poetry has appeared in Rattle and The Comstock Review. His work has been influenced by the Beat school of poetry.
