Tuna and Trepidation

It sat there, wrapped tight,

like a small, forgotten parcel.

Not asked for, just left

on the edge of my desk.

Wax paper warm, a little damp

from the tuna and mayo, cheap and sweet.

I peeled it back, slow.

Unfolding something I hadn't earned.

The tomato was off-center, red and thin,

a slick, pale disc.

Some hand, just doing a thing,

for me.

Each bite was a swallow of quiet.

A clench behind my ribs

where a feeling shouldn't be allowed

to unfurl so easily.

Just bread, fish, a little crunch.

And the sudden, stupid need

to look up, to see who might

be watching me eat this unexpected gift.

Nobody was.

I just felt full, and exposed.