Do you think Jim Morrison imagined his music would become the soundtrack for 11 year-old bakers in the suburbs? Me neither.

Light My Fire

The boy is rocking out in the kitchen
browning butter to The Doors
wearing a cap
reminiscent of his great-grandfather
while the dog snores and snoozes
beneath the bulletin board

You know the one – my super mama
drill sergeant schedule – all black tape
and dry erase – fencing practice,
piano lessons, dinner ideas – maybe Tuesday
we’ll have farro, and doesn’t that sound
so self-congratulatory and wholesome, when really

it’s more like butter and sugar, a box of spaghetti,
some broccoli, steamed again, and I pray
we don’t run out of milk
before breakfast. This whole damn business
is mostly seat of the pants, and it does not

get easier, except sometimes
the house smells like caramel, and piano music
drifts from the living room –
a sonatina starting
then stopping, then starting again