mulled with brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg,
served stiff and firm
with buttered toast at 6 AM—
just before leaving for Camporee.
My father’s long, tired face,
punctuated by a crooked smile
that was crimped on by a long graveyard shift,
looks on with satisfaction
while his son finishes a bowl of oatmeal.
My Father’s Oatmeal