Treasure Island

Morgan Michaels


Sure, there is Proust's madeleine
that, bitten, conjured times gone by-
but as my spoon clinks the flanks
of this mug of mid-day brew-
cream marbling its whorl
till steamy noir
swirls to mahogany in a blink,
all to its garrulous clank,
I think of my noble, luckless father
whose spoon churned out a similar theme,
and every bit as idly;
suddenly I realize
we share the same soul,
virtual twins in talents and failings,
and I surmise how gifts well-tuned,
jail with pride, their keepers
but how mediocrity pardons its preferred.

Submitted: Friday, January 10, 2014
Edited: Friday, August 08, 2014

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Topic(s): love

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