number 47

food & thought
Morning Glory is the name of the cafe, and it is, and I remember how I stopped a woman on the street in the tiny town of Black Mountain and asked her where I could get breakfast and she gave me directions and promised it was the best around and she was right and this morning, just out of a helluva sermon where a guy sang alright songs and a girl painted an alright painting in front of us through the whole service and another guy gave a bit of teaching that gripped trembly things that rattle inside me, teaching that turned bright light in cobwebbed corners under my house, after that as the snow fell soft and slow in huge flakes my waitress remembered me from months ago, even though I have hair now -- "it's your voice I remember" she said and she hugged me too when I left, my over easy eggs and potatos and sausages and biscuit all together again, off the plate and in my belly as I sat at the counter there, thinking about how we tell stories, the grains of truth in all of them and what we wrap them with, the homes we fashion for them.

Recipe
Two parts to every fiction --
truths you own and lies they wear,
your coins sown in moist, dark earth.