Requiem for a Percolator

Her percolator shattered in the dishwasher,
smashed to glass shards by a shifting skillet.
I miss its affectionate orange light,
glowing like a warm heart through the water 
every Sunday morning,
the delicate floral trim printed on the glass,
the cozy chuckling.
How she hated to load that thing,
knocking the wet grounds from the heavy silver drum,
dumping them into the plastic container
for me to lug down into the basement 
and empty into the worm bin to make caffeinated compost.
Lifting the lid of that bin would cause an eruption
of fruit flies, and the pungent stench of decay
would fill the air. I'd hold my nose, brush flies from my face.
I would make the coffee myself whenever I stayed the night.
Part of me wonders if she broke it intentionally,
or at least subconsciously filled the load precariously
to ensure the pan would slip from its prongs.
Now, she's taken to using the French press,
but hasn't gotten the hang of it yet. The brew is very weak.
But the object itself is beautiful, squat and modern
with a sleek handle, 
a silver bullet of burnished steel, indestructible.
Eventually we'll get the balance right
and forget all about that reliable 
but delicate relic. In the meantime, 
I've buried the shards and the carcass
of our old faithful friend 
in the yard, near the fountain,
hoping it will sprout, shooting out tendrils
that end in tiny glass buds
to send the smell of coffee wafting over 
the neighbors' fences.