Sunday Breakfast

I open my five-star, blue lined notebook,
half moon pancakes pushed aside, to write
a poem that describes the feeling of you
that returned while I waited for the golden
brown color that lets me know when to flip
them to the other side...

The feeling of you standing quietly behind
me, tugging at my waist, kissing my neck
and asking "if you were helping"and me,
laughing.

I remember the tender touch of you,
the scent of your breath, as if it were
yesterday. I realize now, you were just
repeating a scene I had described about
my mother and father cooking Sunday
breakfast.   

Deborah Russell, © 2005