She stands sleeping at the stove
Making me lunch before my bus
White rice leftovers
Topped with greens, egg, and apple halves
Delicate tofu glistening in clear soup
The thermos is grey and heavy
More like a specimen canister than food
It sits on my knee on the crowded bus
It won’t fit in my mailbox in the teacher's lounge
But waits atop the wall like a dog for lunchtime
The wife’s boxed lunch is like her love
Sometimes needing to be carried or held
Sometimes heavy or distracting
But giving me strength to work all day
And come home to her at night
Tired yet happy
To be refilled with her love
lovely.
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