Plain Comfort

A chill, it settles, thin

as morning light, across the floor.

I find it, dusty, from within

the cupboard, by the kitchen door.

One can of tomato. A plain, red thing.

It hisses as I punch the top.

Then a slow warmth begins to sing,

a gentle comfort, trying to stop

the cold that catches in my bones.

The steam rises, a blurry breath,

fogging the window. Quiet moans

of hunger silenced. Against death,

or just against the quiet house,

a spoon scrapes ceramic, soft and low.

A simple offering, without a grouse,

this gentle, easy, warming glow.