the dark skillet

there is something about
bacon
that I can't explain.
the smell of it.
my father at the big black
frying pan
on a Saturday morning,
standing over
in his bare feet
a mess of spitting strips
with his spatula.
the smell of it.
the way, your mouth waters
with its scent.
a strange comforting food
of salt and lard,
of no nutritious value.
and yet.
I order it every time I have
eggs
in some god forsaken
diner on the road to somewhere.
I see my
father at the stove.
the house filling up with
the smell and grease of fried
bacon, a bowl of eggs
waiting their
turn in the dark skillet.