The Waffle Iron

Published in 'Til I'm Blue in the Face 2000

    In four years of marriage
    we never made a waffle
    and now we're fighting about the waffle iron.
    She wants to beat me over the head with it.
    Then pictures come off walls,
    post cards, drawings, photographs.
    Everything is pushed neatly off the mantle,
    but a small Amish lantern
    I gave her a while ago.
    I don't even try to argue
    about how we're dividing the music.
    That night I make about a hundred waffles,
    keeping them warm in the oven
    until there's no more room.
    Then I open all the boxes
    and cram the waffles inside,
    taking out wads of newspaper.
    I light the Amish lamp,
    rocking slowly in the chair
    that she's taking tomorrow,
    scan the old headlines for something
    I may have missed months ago,
    a scratched album on the turntable,
    its music whispering and hoarse.
    I gently tap my foot to the memory.


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