Listening to North in the Morning
by Anders Carlson-Wee
I know it’s a frittata because last night
we dumpstered a boatload of eggs
and I can hear the tap tap tapping
on the lip of a bowl. I count the cracks
and smile at eighteen because he’s breaking
the record. Shuffle of socks on the floor.
A suction gives way to a low whir
and I know he’s in the fridge. Butter
and cheese for sure, but what else
is he rummaging for? Five trips
to the counter before the door sucks shut.
Chopping. Scraping. More chopping.
The sizzle of the pan reaches me
before the scent of garlic does.
I like listening to him get reckless,
even though half of everything is mine
and I’d never waste so much on one
meal. Isn’t that the secret indulgence
of friendship: being near what you
can never be? Now the unoiled
backdoor and he’s out in the garden.
Rosemary. Wild onion. He’s talking
to someone, but who? His laughter
is strong this early in the morning.
Now back in the kitchen making a hard
patter of something: Did he find
that Colombian dark roast I hid
in the bottom drawer? I hope he did.