Morgan Michaels


Madeleine


Sure, there is Proust's madeleine
that, bit, conjured days gone by-
but as my spoon clinks the sides
of this cup of new day brew-
cream marbling its whorl
till steaming noir
changes to mahogany in a blink,
all to its garrulous lay,
I think of my noble, luckless father
whose spoon churned in a similar way,
equally thoughtlessly;
And suddenly I realize
we share the same soul,
virtual twins in talent and failing
and I surmise how gifts well-tuned,
imprison, with pride, their bearers;
how mediocrity frees its preferred.

Submitted: Friday, January 10, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, February 19, 2014

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