Gingerbread at Midnight

He eats gingerbread at midnight. Every night
he rises from his dark but warm bed to walk
to the living room where the picture
window lets in the tappings of moonlight.

He walks

with the tappings leading his toes
to a kitchen trapped
in darkened memories.
His wrinkled hands fumble
as the tin lid tings and he takes three
cookies from the plastic tray.

And the fridge light competes
briefly with moonlight
as he pours a glass of milk. And shuffles
back through the living room,

to pause and gaze at the window
with the moonlight tapping
to get in. And he thinks of her
and her gingerbread
as he settles softly, acceptedly
into the recliner near the dark
but warm bedroom. Empty
of tappings, but filled with gingerbread
crumbs.