Margaret Waters
We renovated this old house
for just the two of us.
I have one bed,
not as large as it used to be
when I shared it.
You have one beneath the bedroom window,
and another at the front door,
where you guard us from the night.
Our friends are fewer and farther away.
The children and their children have busy lives,
and so our days have barely any musts
except for what have become
our daily offices—
the first morning walk,
which is not always early.
Your nap.
You waken though,
even from another room,
when I sit to meditate,
give my arm a single lick
to assure me you’ll be keeping watch.
The sacrament of the yellow ball.
A final walk before the winter sun sinks,
your supper at six.
(It’s funny how your clock runs fast.)
Three small treats at 7:30 sharp,
Two more when I turn out the light—
our unchanted compline.
