The Old Man Talks to His Wife On a Day He’ll Always Remember
The water is slow to warm this morning,
or perhaps I’m impatient
to get this day moving,
to get this day over
and done with.
Our mattress and covers entreat me,
but the world demands.
Tired of barn mice,
the tom curls around my ankles
as I toast the last loaf you made,
make too much bacon,
break eggs into the pan.
His old voice is kitten high
as he asks when I became cook.
I set your place on the table,
two rough sawhorses I made when we were younger
and an old bedroom door
we used beyond its normal life:
A plastic cup chalice for wine,
a rough napkin charger for wafers,
a well used white cloth for the Resurrection.
Why will we call this a wake,
when I know you won’t?