For Company

The bag had been folded since Friday, patient,

the top creased down like someone keeping faith.

Two days of almost, two days of latent

plans that kept dying their small, polite death.

This morning I ate the last one over the drain,

both hands, the juice running down to the wrist —

that sweetness that's almost too sweet, almost pain,

the kind of ripe that can't be held or missed.

The pit I left wet on the counter's edge.

The bag I smoothed flat before throwing it out —

some small ceremony I can't explain or pledge,

just me and a peach and a canceled day.

She texted at noon: sorry, next week for sure.

I said of course, no worries, sounds great.