Bakelite Blues

while we listen

to elvis’s staticky growl

coming from the cracked

bakelite,

you fry up hotcakes

with a cast iron skillet—

a family heirloom

you once told me.

the sun silky dining room

fills with the fragrance

of warm maple syrup

and the drowsy smoke

of a cigarette lit

and forgotten about.

your copy of the sun also rises,

creased and water damaged,

lies on the counter

where you tossed it

after the spontaneous

breakfast decision.

you stand on your tiptoes,

as if cooking were

a performance,

and as the butter sizzles

i give a standing

ovation.