Poetry

French Toast

It is on Sunday
And mostly late in the day
Scent buttery sweet

A ride in the car
and the roof all the way down
Light blue eyes and sky

What lasts forever?
All of this turns to rubble
After time weathers

Charred and burned on stove
with baby boy on her hip
Smoke a cigarette

Wow, time sure does change
On Sunday after drinking
Sick and hung over

Deliver paper
But today I’m not on time
Running home, afraid

When something happens
And so, words kept deep inside
Silence on Sunday

Worn out and tired
Hungry. Waiting for the keys
We arrived too late

All shops and eats closed
On Sunday, rest and relax
Still hungry and tired

It is on Sunday
Sometimes mid day mid morning
Thoughts of yesterday

And sweet buttery
Fills the air again at home
On a hot griddle

Close my open mind
like a store door on Sunday
I don’t want to think

About yesterday
About being a kid, aught
Three channels to watch

Headaches, arguing
Day after drinking too much
Nix, nothing to do

It is on Sunday
This day takes me back again
Thoughts of yesterday

To have it again
Would be like a dream come true
If just for one day

A day like Sunday
Doing whatever with you
No, no complaining

Only on Sunday
On the river and fishing
Camping, just being

 

Photo by @heftiba

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5 thoughts on “French Toast”

  1. Thank you Bryan, it is so true how the mind works and how a scent can trigger a particular memory. I think you hit on the same thing in your blog post as well. Food, our fuel and what we often do for someone we love. We take someone out to eat or we cook for them. It is all about the food. Parties, breaking bread, simply gathering around a table together. Family being together. Food brings us together and what we taste, smell and enjoyed is something always remembered.

    Like

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