Leaning over my sink this morning
to let the juice run down the drain
from the white peach in my hand,
I recalled your stand-up meals
at the sink in the kitchen that we shared.
The rooms of your home were memorable settings:
the living room for the bridge ladies
and for watching the moon rise;
the kitchen for laughing at comic strips and for goodnight hugs;
the television room for your favorite viewing:
the Dodgers, the Lakers, Triple Crown races,
and always the 11 PM news.
Occasionally, while waiting for you to come home at night,
I would gaze through the windows
at the lights along the coast,
fearing the worst when you were later than usual,
and then you would arrive and say,
“The old girl always makes it home.”