Saturday tanka.

Pancakes from a mix:

I defy any breakfast

to be more wheaty,

more maple-y, quicker

from buttered pan to my plate.

I manicured

just one hand: in my defense,

it was my left hand,

much easier, lacquer-wise.

The other hand went naked.

Subway sandwich, why

are you the easiest out

when it comes down to

negotiating the fast food

lunch, you six-inch peacemaker?

It's Complicated,

a second time, with my aunt:

Santa Barbara,

Meryl & Alec: swell. But

we really want her kitchen.

Tomorrow, I will

bake a birthday cake. It will

have raspberries and

whipped cream frosting. Cake is the

force that gives my life meaning.

O Swedish police

procedural: how you bring

the day definite

closure: though I also find

my dreams a bit murderous--

happy birthday! to Scotland daughter, in a land far far away on the blasted heath--

TAGS: poetic, prosaic, birthday