A Child At Breakfast Poem

A Child At Breakfast

Waking up involves a lot of wandering
Trying to get from my bed
to the iron vent in the living room floor
takes a lot of work.
My feet are freezing, and Mama's singing.
I stand over the vent and let the hot air come
swirling up my nightgown,
puffing it out like a big hoop skirt.
I crouch down, toes burning on the metal squares.
The smell of bacon pulls me nose first into the kitchen.
Stephen's standing on the vent by the stove.
I fight for my turn,
while glasses are clinking, skillet pops and sizzles
She opens the lid to the green tupperware
where she keeps her coffee
placing it under my nose,
I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
Her breakfast table is large, and welcoming
it sends us scurrying to our seats.