I made dinner tonight, honey, even set the table right.
Big fork on the left, next to the knife.
A spoon across the top, I think, for dessert, or maybe soup.
I don't know.
A little bread plate.
Water on the right.
The box said 45-minutes at 350, but I left it in longer,
just to make sure it would be as good as you used to make.
Bubbling and hissing in the oven.
Candle burning slow to its wick.
White wax dripping onto matching napkins.
Don't worry, honey, I'm not going to waste the good stuff
on a lonely mid-week drunk,
I'll just drink whatever cabernet hides deep in the cabinet
save anything worthwhile until you get home.
Whenever that will be.
David Colodney studies poetry and creative writing in the MFA program at Converse College, and serves as poetry editor of the South 85 literary journal. He has written for The Miami Herald and The Tampa Tribune, and his poetry has previously appeared on Egg. He lives in Boynton Beach, Florida, with his wife, three sons, and golden retriever.