Diagonal Comfort

It sat on the step,

wrapped in cool wax,

a gift from the quiet.

No questions, no tax.

Sliced on the bias,

a perfect crisp line.

The crusts left exactly,

a comforting sign.

I used to pick them off,

a picky child's chore.

Now, the thought of that waste,

it just hurts me to my core.

And the mustard, so faint,

a memory stirred.

How someone could know,

without speaking a word.

A small, perfect thing,

a kindness bestowed.

A bite of shared silence,

a softening load.