December, 1999

Eggs, Pancakes and PacMan
© By Ann Campanella

 

You carried me over the threshold into a cabin
with knots in the walls like tiny mouths.  
We spent that winter under covers, emerging
to feast on crockpot meals and Hamburger Helper
in the orange glow of our space heater.
After a weekend of lovemaking, we’d gorge
on eggs and grits, you’d make pancakes
in your mother’s skillet. We never invited
your parents to visit. They couldn’t take
the peeling wallpaper, the dingy floors,
the open fire of our nest.

On cold afternoons, we’d walk arm in arm
down the aisles of the grocery store, stopping to hug
between the cat food and the detergent. We’d pop in
at the video arcade for a game of PacMan.
Hips pressed into each other, we’d watch the smiling dot
gobble up everything in its path.
I’d scream when your man was eaten.
The computerized gurgle sent us into fits of giggles.
All I had to do was hold up one finger and you’d dig
in your pocket for another quarter -- one last game.
We laughed at what the world would think of us.

Today we sleep side by side,
hips still pressed together. We chuckle
over the fat belly of our cat, the chirps
she makes when she licks herself. We have a home
your parents can visit, a heat pump
and a guest room with a blue-patterned quilt.
But when it’s just us, we turn down the lights,
eat eggs for dinner and play games all night.

 

 

Previously published in the North Carolina Poetry Society's 
"Award Winning Poems, 1999" 
Used with permission of the Poet.

Important Notice:  Poems on this page are Copyright © by the Poet