Bare Necessity

by Annette Snyckers

This morning
you forgot your lunchbox
on the kitchen table.
Inside I found
two slices of rye,
two slices of cheese
unadorned.
No red tomato,
no lettuce frill,
no mustard,
no dill.

A frugal childhood
has left its mark on you.
Perhaps it’s now permissable
to add a carrot or two?

Afterthought:

There are men
who have tipped the other way.
They strut around pot-bellied.
I prefer you.

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