who waterloo?

My father can make few things in the kitchen
the whirl of hard counters and ripe fruit sensory overload
to his engineer's mind
but on Sunday's when my mother has
fallen fast and soundless into bed
he strides through
Napoleon in a white shirt and tie
first the bread, thick and brown, lathered with sweet cream butter
The cheese now
sliced by sword and his determind shaky hand
the smell of the dirty griddle rises through the house,
last weeks' sandwiches now burnt on
he slaps his babies down, like spanking the griddle for some misdeed
it sing sizzles into the afternoon air
and calls us in.
We have never heard of Waterloo.


the later it gets
the hotter my room
it's my early morning bath
in the moist sleepless humidity.