breakfast love

the smell of breakfast,
a real breakfast,
eggs, bacon, toast,
hash browns
reminds me
of childhood,
with my father at the stove.
butter and jam.
orange juice.
him in his apron
and sailor whites,
cooking for seven kids,
all sitting at the table.
the plates
were full. he'd slice
up quarters of melon
too, setting
the orange and green slices
on each plate.
he had no advice,
no fatherly
tender moments, no giving
of direction
for any of our lives,
but he could cook
us breakfast, those rare
times when he was home,
and for then, and
even now, that was
good enough.