Mornings I hear the whoosh of cars trucks & buses on the damp windy boulevards Sometimes I wonder about waffles & wish I’d paid more attention when she was still here. It’s called a waffle iron, she’d whisper as if I couldn’t be trusted And I always wanted at least three - hot enough to make butter scream & to bubble the syrup but cool enough to eat after stirring my mug of black coffee Now there’s only this one-eyed cat knocking around an empty beer can in the dark corner & these two eggs that I’m afraid to crack