The first one is always ruined,
batter stuck to the hot iron:
a sacrifice of egg and flour
to hungry breakfast demigods
who demand more butter, more oil
in order for them to release
the next onto my spatula.

Devotedly applying grease
to the black honeycomb altar
before I attempt another,
this offering is rewarded 
with a batch of several waffles –
a puff of steam announces each
as I lift them from their maker.