Saturday morning, waking up
I smelled the scrumptious pancakes
Long before any other scents registered
my nose.

The homey smell of my favorite maple syrup
And the sweetness of the batter.
I can imagine the miraculous sound
Of sizzling as the batter hits the burning pan
With perfectly melted butter, and
The bubbles bursting at the
top of the batter.

I wonder what type they might be,
Banana? Strawberry? Cinnamon? Blueberry?
I hope its chocolate chip because
The chocolate of the chip combines
perfectly with the fluffiness
Of the vanilla pancake.

I gather the strength to stretch
As my legs reach the side of my blissful bed.
I see the sun
That is just now peeking over the horizon
Through the dark stormy clouds.
My eyes dart around the dark room
Eventually landing on the clock
Reading 6 pm.

A jolt through my legs
makes me arise, alarmed
From that unexpected number.
How could this be I thought.
Never once in my long memory
Have I remembered this happening.
However, at least there are pancakes I thought.

Outraged, and aghast I leaped
Down the creaking old stairs.
With each step the scent of
The scrumptious pancakes leave my nose
Only to replaced by an appalling, oppressive odor,
One that I know oh too well.

I reach the well kept kitchen seeing
A large lump of the most
Repulsive meat that could ever be.
Grilled chicken.