By Thomas Page
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
One of the first things I cooked was French toast.
The recipe was so simple:
I had to cook something for the scouts.
We on a camping trip on sand and concrete
As the rising sun was at my neck
Like the orders wanting breakfast sooner
Too soon to allow eggs to transform.
The last slice leapt from pan to plate
I washed the pan preparing for the next meal of many
Trying to get better for its own sake.