Cracker Comfort

Another Tuesday bled itself dry.

The kind of day that just pulls

the light out of the air.

Came home, the fridge a pale hum,

nothing calling out.

But the box of saltines,

stale already, in the back

of the pantry, and that block

of cheddar, sharp-edged

and sweating slightly.

I stood by the sink, crumbs

on the porcelain, the dry crunch

filling up the quiet,

the sharp fat coating my tongue.

It’s not even good, not really.

Just… something. A small

stubborn act against

the quiet defeat.