pancakes

the stack of pancakes
makes your
eyes widen.
golden soft pages
of fried batter.
the skinny waitress,
sunburned
and blonde, wobbles
as she carries
the heavy plate
to your table,
batting her blue
eyes and smiling.
there is a clunk when
the dish is set down.
they have been
buttered before
they arrive.
you pour a stream
of amber
syrup on the top.
whipped cream, she
asks, pulling out a can
from her deep
apron pocket.
you shake your head.
it's more than you
need, more than you
can eat, but
the the first soft
bite that lingers
in your mouth makes
you think, maybe,
you can do it, you
think about
the starving people
in india that your
mother seemed to
know so much about
despite only reading
photoplay magazine
for her weekly news.
you dig in. the day is
long. you're on vacation.