A day with you is saying good morning to the sun with cups of coffee. Long walks, but longer talks, and feeling tingly. Pillow fights on white sheets in underwear with yellow smileys; bacon and eggs and pancakes and sausage, and peanuts with no grease.

A day with you is seeing the dusk with rainbows. Chocolate ice creams and cones and mangoes; KitKats and Cadburys and Oreos, with Lego House and marshmallows. Or maybe cookies and cola and not milk, while I hold your hand of silk. Or maybe some singing or dancing or playing the guitar. Or painting a portrait of the moon and stars.

A day with you is a night in July and rainy. And kissing you with some hugging too and three spoonfuls of honey. Then I'll cradle you, with lights out, as you doze sweetly beside me. I'll hum you to sleep with tender pattings on the hips, and watch your eyelids fall gently.

I'm not paying attention until the violent
Hiss jerks me awake t
The same way the
Violent crack of a gunshot of would.
Collision of liquid on hot metal
Pushes away any dreams lingering.
Fully aware now I reach for the door, Once a gleaming, vibrant white
Now covered with  
Dingy use.
I know the cold air is coming
But still it's another
Jolt to my system,
The chill of the air conspiring the
Brightness of the light,
Giggling together at my obvious Displeasure of them.
Light tickles my eyes into a
Squint like a feather tickles your
Nose into a sneeze.
Through the squint I can see the color of bark,  
Dark brown heart of trees
Secretly pumping blood of trees,
Sticky and sweet just like
Ours.
Just like the blood being
Pumped by the
Little heart behind the sound of giggles that has slowly snaked its way
Through the doors and
Around the walls to my ears.
Giggles and shuffling footsteps
Desperately trying to be silent, covert,
Unheard.  
But the desperate desire for silence Causes such excitement  in the mind of the
Boy that the
Distinct sound of
Shuffling slippers is produced.
The boys realization of the noise Makes him
Giggle at his own sneakiness,
Too young to realize the sound means He's failed,
Young enough to have fun
Regardless.
I think of those giggles as i
Scratch at the itchy
Knot in my neck, a sharp
Contrast to the softness of cotton that I Feel everywhere else
The itch reminds me to pay attention,
Not get lost in those giggles
My hand quickly moving from my neck to the white porcelain bed
Balancing early morning sweetness That's about to be
Devoured
Bed warm and heavy now.
I set it on what I noticed for the
First time is also a
Tree.
I've never noticed how vital trees
Are to my morning.
That the last thought I'll have thats just
mine for hours.
From this point on all thoughts will
Revolve around the boy and his father,
My son and my husband
They walk towards me now
Together
Husband helps with the knot at my Neck
Untying it so I can take off the
Itchy apron and get back to
Enjoying the softness of my
PJ'S 's, my  
Son jumps into the chair and reaches For the bed of pancakes on a
Wooden table, starts to pour
Sticky sweet blood of a maple tree,
Far more syrup then he needs.
His father opens the dingy white door,
Experiencing that bright light and
cold air just like I did as
He reaches for the milk
I realize I can see the white porcelain of the plate;
I need to make more pancakes
I pour more batter into the hot skillet
Somehow that hiss catches me off guard again
Just like a bullet would again  
I shake my head and look back at the Table, them.
I walk over and kiss both of them
Both tasting like milk and syrup,
smelling like sleepy sweetness and
Looking like my Saturday morning

She was laid to rest in May
in a small cemetery in a small town.
She was ninety nine and a half.
She was my grandmother.

Looking back I remember.
I would stay at her house
in the summer.
It would take me away
from the pains of home.

We would play games
or go to the movies.
She would take me bowling
each night I stayed, it was our thing.

The next morning, I could hear
bacon sizzling from my room.
She made scrambled eggs, bacon,  fresh squeezed orange juice and pancakes.

She was my light away from the dark. She took my pain away. She eased my worries like no other. She was my grandmother.

If I could have one wish right now in the world.  It would be to have more pancakes with my grandmother.

She bohemian art shaman,
         a cosmic clown tribe,
         a Voodoo Chile; Hendrix-haired.

Sometimes I think the Wankerverse*
is the best description
of where  I like to make pancakes for her....

A kiss from her lips feels like a sunrise
after a midnight Shpongle dance party.

I''ll have my coffee black
And my pancakes chocolate chipped.
Don't take the paper back,
I was reading those comics.
What happened to your shirt, darling?
(That stain below the pocket…)
It was crisp and white this morning,
Now it’s got a puddle on it.
Here, let me open the window up-
I want to hear the sunshine.
Here, let me refill your cup.
Oh my, it’s nearly nine!
Wait, I'm going to give you a kiss.
For that there is enough time.

i'm a loose hair on your diner scrambled eggs:
undesired.

i woke up,
in a different clothing,
and a different bed from
mine.
the gray t-shirt stuck
to my sweaty skin,
and i got out of the untidy
bed, to find the source
of the delicious pancakes
smell.
what i found weren't
pancakes,
but a lying, lifeless
body on the kitchen
floor and burnt
breakfast.