lady of the harbour

she’d never been so morbid before
this one burned to death in norway,
that one was obliterated
by a submarine door
all the old boys and chattering wives
are simply no more,
and she’s the last of her ilk
she misses pouring me cookies and milk
for breakfast;
shuffling around in grey dawns in silk nightgowns
mutely haunted by the cigar smoke
and forgotten dreams in the house
her husband built.
not many years left for her,
she sighed
but a lot for me?
she doesn’t know
i fully expected to swallow a bullet
by seventeen;
i long to preserve her recipes
how she used to run on her knees
her diligence in ironing out a crease;
all i hope is that you have nothing but peace
and quiet, content, restful sleep.