Monday, November 26, 2012

Iron Clads

Bonds Of Breakfast

They don’t see each other much anymore
divided by distance, siblings jousting
still for the kings favor the queens teat those
tarnished royals who left the stage long ago
cast in their time as hero and villain
from old stove and grate, childhood forgery

drop hammered into half inch boilerplate   
impervious to time, rust bled, seized fast.
The younger less experienced brother
strapping, fresh from the mold, impatient for
his first patina with a place in the
oven above a family of cookie

sheets and the old grizzled broiler pan full
of old fish stories no one wants to hear.  
The oldest one got all the looks along
with the grief of the first born; haphazard
seasoning, the early exposure to
harsh soap, wanting for a thin coat of oil

youth misspent in unchecked oxidization. 
He lives uptown in a stove top penthouse
spare early riser blackened as a monks
cassock at midnight mass, he stays busy
hovered over a gas ring of blue flame
conductor of heat, transformer of eggs

a reliable caramelizer of
onions, a mad alchemist of batter.   
They still get together for big breakfasts
corroborating rusty memories
giving thick omelets the kid glove treatment
proclaiming maple bacon to the dawn. 

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