This morning it was Alan

There is no order to it

The remembering

I never know who will be joining me for coffee

Or the minute, two or three while it brews

And I am standing at the counter collecting milk and cup and tablet

That’s when they visit me

Ghosts, most of them

Some more long gone than others

This morning it was Alan

And the particular way he held his hands when he sat at Tony’s eating Hay and Straw

I’ll make it tonight in his honor

And maybe tell his story over the meal

And extend his visit just a bit

I don’t think he would mind