tonight is sliced, white
bread, always waiting
in the refrigerator,
steadfast as a palace guard
on her stardusted watch.

I twist open the bag,
cringing as it crinkles
in my hands, listening
to my father’s rhythmic snores,
thankfully uninterrupted.

A slightly squashed slice of honey wheat is my sweet reward,
soft dough and crumbly crust
soothing my midnight appetite,
tucking me into a bed of unawakened dreams.