If I ever made a waffle iron
that could render any image
crisped in golden batter,

I would make sure it had
a battery pack and a strap;
then I’d sling it over my

shoulder and hit the road.
I’d stand on bridges in the
cold, gray morning, call out

to people who seemed to
most need waffle portraits.
This I would do for free,

and I’d turn down offers
from Bisquick, Hungry Jack.
The local media would

get wind; I’d make waffles
of weathermen and anchors,
on-the-scene reporters,

all displayed over the last
notes of the theme song
that brings the morning

news to a close. It would
go downhill from there.
I would be accused of

making someone’s wife
look “too doughy,” and
IHOP would post notices

in all its prefab chalets
saying I was a threat
and possibly insane.

Eventually, I would write
my goodbye in a waffle,
leave it for the pigeons,

melt away just as the sun
slides over the earth’s
heavy, broken edge.

For NaBloPoMo and PAD Challenge, Day 12 (prompt: write about a technology that doesn’t exist yet).