Eating at midnight

Once, greeting me at the door
at midnight when I’d come home

again after my week after week
of working in the city, you took

my bags and led me to the table.
You took from the refrigerator

a few green peppers, a handful
of mushrooms, a small onion

which you diced into quarters.
A slick of oil sizzled in the pan.

You crushed a clove of garlic
and sautéed the medley, soy-

spattered, which I ate and ate
until nothing remained

in the bowl of rice. I think
of that meal sometimes and try

without success to bring it all
back together on my stove.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.