Poem Of The Week: 07/26/2005

	Yorkshire Pudding

It sounded adventurous,
like something knights eat,
seated at a round table as they toast the king
with flagons and chalices and graels;

and mom made it
on rare nights of roast beef saying: tonight
there will be no pasta,
no minute or other-timely rice, no casserole with browned Cheerios on top;

this noble loaf, this delicacy-not-a-dessert
(despite its last name) is for you, my dears;
the pan
I can smell this night

even though it's looking like Taco Bell on the way home from work,
even though Mom is five hundred miles west, across the plains,
through the foothills, to the base of grey mountains,
a plate of raw carrots and broccoli and rice cakes before her

and I, on my white horse,
raise my hand at the pinkening clouds
and vow, Mom,
I am on my way.
 

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