Assignment 11: Concrete Poem

Flapjacks

Brenna Thummler

When the sun rises, he tells me to eat pancakes.

Bands of buttery light melt through my windows

And lead me down the staircase

To the old iron griddle,

Still speckled with batter from yesterday’s breakfast,

Or perhaps the one before.

I pour a new coat of the thick substance

And watch it seep,

Sizzle, spread,

Smelling the strong aromas of family:
Warmth blended with sugar.

Then watch it bubble,

Bake, Brown

Until I’m flipping them over and flipping out,

Ready with a platter bigger than the tabletop.

Here come the short stacks of flapjacks soaked in a maple monsoon.

Here come the doughy delights drowned in butter, sprinkled with cinnamon.

Here come the gooey pastries I can never go a day without.

And in a couple bites they’re gone.

I think the sun’s telling me to eat pancakes for lunch.