It is 11:23pm
and I have an uncontrollable urge
for pancakes.
It's just
the making of the pancakes
that is not attractive to me.
It's just
the mixing and the constant monitoring
the consistency checking that
inevitably ends up
with far too much batter
and far too much time
over a hot griddle.
It is 11:24pm
and I can feel my stomach turn over
growling for pancakes
golden and thick and reminiscent
of mornings
mornings that range in intimacy
a stack of pancakes can mean
many things,
you see.
It is 11:26pm
and I am caught in the flames
of remembering pancakes past
too paralyzed
with hunger and angst
to consider
pancakes present
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