I hope its a Saturday.

I would start by waking up before you do
(since I'm always the last one up)
and I'd cook you breakfast in bed.
It seems simple I know, but I'd start early
at, like, 7 am
and cook every kind of pancake and egg I could imagine.
Like eggs in a basket or cinnamon bun pancakes,
or maybe just the buttermilk kind.
I would tap the maple tree out back
and boil up a batch of the sweetest maple syrup
you had ever tasted.
Every time you would taste syrup after this,
you would think of me and this morning.
Then I would cook up all of the bacon I could find
until it turned black and crispy
(too burnt for me, but I know you like it that way).
I'd pull all of the mangoes and oranges and grapefruit out of the fridge,
and use that Jack LaLanne Power Juicer,
you know,
the one that we haven't used since it arrived on our porch.
There will be too much pulp for you,
but you'll drink it anyway.
I would finish up by brewing your favorite coffee-
isn't it that Columbian kind?-
and wake you with the smell wafting through the apartment
(like those Maxwell House commercials).
You would come downstairs wondering what was going on,
and where I was,
since I am never out of bed before you.
And you would see a table covered in food
with me ironing all of your work shirts for the next week.
It would be so **** we'd make love right there,
on the dining room floor
ignoring the food that was quickly becoming too cold to enjoy.

And then I would erase it all
and leave you.