I fixed a peach for you, he says, coming in
to wake me. I know that at the table bowl and plate
await me, sit royally on the blue mat,

knife and spoon in place. The rich aroma of coffee
follows him down the hall. I push the covers back, thrust
my feet into padded slippers, paddle to the kitchen.

We sit behind our papers in unspoken truce, broken
only by the click of the microwave door. While his coffee
heats again, he kisses me,

microwave kisses and the toot of his horn at the foot
of the driveway, Often I peer through shutter slats
to watch him drive away, linger

on the front porch to wave goodbye, happy
to have ended up after all these years
breakfasting with Jack.

From The Fringes of Hollywood (Jacaranda Press).
Used with the author's permission.