I wrote this poem a few weeks ago while Robb was out buying more eggs.
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Pancakes
I broke the only egg this morning,
our pancakes seeping from cracked shell
into kitchen rug.
The night before, you'd asked me
why I don't like to cook.
I hate feeling like a failure--
especially before I even begin.
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Out
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Home street
1 day ago
3 comments:
Eggs and relationships are both tricky and fragile. Hope you got some nice pancakes in the end. I love the spare simplicity of the poem.
We did get some great pancakes in the end! And thanks!
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