Popover-Poem of the week

We drove to the outer Long Island

Found Patricia Murphy’s

The flower aproned waitresses

Swirled with their wicker baskets

Steamy hot popovers

Gently dripping onto our bread plates

Seeping butter folded into our hands

As the flaky crust slithered down our throats

Formal dress for my sister

Jacket and mini tie tucked at me

Father’s chest pain free

Mom’s crimson face sheltered by dyed blonde hair

We had no idea that this speck of time

Would end

The family of four transformed to three in a blink

East coast became the west coast

Never to consume popovers again

No odor memories to comfort me

Just pockets sorting through my crevices

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