I don’t know why I set my alarm clock for 9:30 am on a sunday;
the light coming through the window preheated my eyes
until 12:30 in the afternoon.
something heroic in me stirred right then
and I wobbled slowly out of my blanket cocoon
like a Red Skelton new years sketch;
inebriated by sleep; beyond any shame or doubt.
I weakly stumbled into the arms of a cup of water and the coffee maker.
I slapped the radio until it worked;
with the fervor of a frustrated block obsessed preschooler;
I let the good folks at Prairie Home Companion do all of the talking my cottonmouth wouldn’t allow at the time; While i stared blankly at my oil splattered oven trying to remember why I woke up.
I knew I had dreamt something I couldn’t remember; the dream had been as unremarkable as it was pleasant.
Suddenly; images of sizzling batter danced through my inner monologue as clapping and cheers, from a crowd trapped in my radio speakers, nado-sirened across my apartment
Eureka! Mr. Watson come here I want you; we’re making pancakes.
Like a kid with a grade school crush
I grabbed all I needed in a matter of seconds;
wearing the right shoe of a chemist, the left shoe of a priest
and the socks of a carpenter
mixing solids and liquids; heating surfaces; whisking; dumping; measuring
singing along with Paul Simon
as I ceremonially flipped discs of Jesus’s matter
in remembrance of having remembered things I ought to have remembered or at least written down for christ’s sakes;
stretching my arms high above my head;
yawning praises and counting blessings;
for the earth still turns
the sun still shines
and the band still plays; no matter what