I imagine breakfast
he and I ordering the eggs-
gelatinous yolks, pregnant with possibilities,
plopped atop their white rubbery volcano.
Our sandpaper toast brushing the membrane
igniting the slow motion eruption
of hot yellow magma
running rapidly through the hash browns.
We would laugh in iambic pentameter
at the puns and alliterations
on the breakfast menu at Denny’s-
The Fabulous French Toast,
Moons over My Hammy.
We would speak only in simile and metaphor
about our frumpy waitress
a kangaroo with short front paws
and an extraneous pouch.
She would find us an hour later
yolks solidified and chunky-
still struggling to find a slant rhyme
(I would use cheer up).
On the ride home
in our loud car with a snake of white
exhaust trailing us,
we would marvel at the marmalade sun and
(having an affinity for the haiku) would say-
The sun is melting
burning itself to purple
behind the blue sky.
What If My Father Were a Poet? by Amye Archer