Magic is molasses 
Dripping from a spoon, 
Sticking and oozing
Its way down through your throat. 
Magic is good on waffles. 

I wonder what magic tastes like 
When it’s bad?
Burnt toast, maybe? 
Crumbles of intention 
and evil combined to form 
A hockey puck that would  
make any morning worse.

Breakfast is magic.
We start our day with the sun 
Baking itself into the back of
Our eyelids 
But the smell of bacon 
Wafts up from the kitchen
And you keep getting up-
Keep setting that intention to 
Look forward to another breakfast. 

Magic is in your mouth
Behind your teeth, 
Down your throat. 
Milk to a newborn- 
That’s magic 
Lullabies at bedtime
And saying goodnight
To the moon.

Magic is born in the mouth 
And in the spirit of saying
“I just had a feeling,”
It starts in the gut

And works its way back up
Until the words that come out
Are branded with your blessings
And Sunday night prayers
Mean something different entirely.

Instead of begging for a miracle,
Fry it up like bacon in the morning. 
Mix it together and make a scramble.
Yell when your toast burns
And always cry over spilled milk.

Magic doesn’t forget to be sweet,
It knows how to push your buttons
In all the right ways
Like the sun shining too brightly
And wind whipping hair in your eyes.
Incense smoke causing an asthma attack
And somehow, you’re allergic to sage?

But magic doesn’t leave 
When you tell it to.
Magic stays behind and 
Gets caught in your breath
When you’re not looking.
So suddenly, you’re writing again 
For the first time in ten years
And your new friends invite you
To Waffle House for the 
fourth time this week
But you know what?
Waffles never get old.