Bubbles gather around the
inside of my blue-tin cup,
cradling a continent of Cafe Verona blend
with a splash of milk
and 1/3 spoon of sugar dropped between the bubbles.

The smell of bacon-
grease and butter, brown sugar and piney sawdust,
chimes with the whispering smell of the strips
browning and
crisping on the black grill.

I wanted to blink,
pull out the memory reel and paste the picture
of this place in a scrapbook. Take it to the attic,
leave it in the hope chest,
wait for it to get dusty, yellow-rimmed,
and mothy-smelled.

But I didn’t.

If I did, I wouldn’t have seen my Mom
walk in from cooking bacon
with a packaged salad in a Tupperware container. “Do you
think your Dad will eat this?”
she asks.
It is hard to tell, especially since the white
clumps might look like
onions to him, the purple cabbage like poison.

Just give him the curly bacon
on a paper towel
and a cup of his decaf colored-water coffee.
Could you refuse that with a woolly
crochet blanket on your lap,
a golden retriever’s wet nose
nudging your elbow,
chickadee pips from the open window
and the hiss of grease in your ears?



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