For Peter
When he asks for a ride
to cardiology,
I get there
early
before dawn
to find him standing
on the porch
in his tube socks
and sandals,
holding a ham.
In six months, he will die of a coronary.
That morning,
though,
he held
the ham
in his hands
like a celebrant
high over his head,
walking toward the car
with the offering
—misshapen,
pink, triangular—
in exchange
for a lift,
saying, take this, this is for you
a kind of consecration
the heavy ham
rolling
on the seat
between us
as we drove
to hospital
talking
of work,
moving
through traffic
into town.
