Gunderson

In her mean-mouthed kitchen,

the crepes flipped perfect. 

Butter-tender, brown-

freckled, thin as 

pudding skin, 

custardy, rolled 

tight with jam

glittering garnet,

white storming 

confectioner’s sugar,

slit with a side-

turned fork. I ate 

while Jerry Taft explained 

windchill, while she stood 

at the stove, reading 

readiness with a dull knife,

while I paged sales:

ALDI, D’Andrea’s, 

When I ate, 

I didn’t smile. That’s why

she liked me best.