Spooned out
formed by force of gravity
diameter to be determined,
from silver dollar
to as big as a frisbee.

Over burning embers,
prehistoric ancestors
flipped and peeled them off
flat granite, their aroma luring
cave dwellers from their hairy sleep.

The same flapjacks I begged for
at Bozo the Clown TV lunches
when I ran home from school
at noon and ran back at 12:45,
tracking a mile burning off
whatever I ate.

Oh, circle of sustenance,
you’ve been working class fare
from B.C. to the 21st century
or are you just the Mardi Gras
laissez les bons temps rouler
way to dispense of milk, eggs
and butter before Lent?

All I know from crepes suzette
to johnny cakes, is that each,
whether made to order
or shaped wildly by accident,
are stacks above
the old bowl of cold cereal.

Cynthia Gallaher, a Chicago-based poet, is author of four poetry collections, including Epicurean Ecstasy: More Poems About Food, Drink, Herbs & Spices, and three chapbooks, including Drenched. Her award-winning creativity guide is Frugal Poets’ Guide to Life: How to Live a Poetic Life, Even If You Aren’t a Poet.