“My Future Dream”

I wake up in the morning,

At 7:23.
Work starts in a few hours,
But first I dress and eat.

I scan my cluttered email,

Then half-way out the door,
My husband says politely,
"Could you grab some bread from work?"

You see, I am a stock clerk,

At the local general store.
It's hard, but pays enough,
Without needing to do more.

It's Friday, so we're busy,

It reeks of sweat and Biozyme.
I pity our cashiers,
But still clock out on time.

When my shift is finally over,

I search for bread without halt,
And find the shelves quite empty,
Save for off-brand kosher salt.

Leaving work dejected,

The cool air fills my lungs.
Evenings fast-approaching,
And the irony leaves me stung.

If were a rich man,

Surely, I could surely procure bread?
I could dictate when the sun moves,
And make cashiers nod their head.

It feels, in that moment,

So woefully unfair.
All my darling wants is morning toast-
And this is how I fare?

I might feel like a failure,

Walk home in utter shame.
Living simply, being no one-
What an unrewarding game.

Affront our little building,

I'd see a woman with her bags.
She's a tenant, in her forties,
Takes care of her older dad.

I blurt it shortly,
"Need some help, miss?"
She takes a second, tilts her head,
"You're 212, right?"
"I am, indeed."
I'm surprised she remembers me to ask.
She then accepts my offer,
And we split the Herculean task.

The things aren't all too heavy,

And I take all I can,
As we trek past the apartments,
With bags of food in-hand.

She thanks me for my kindness,

Asks if she needs to pay.
(What she means: do you need money?
But that's not polite to say.)

I think for half a second,

Then it pops into my head,
"Do you think that you could spare me
Just a single loaf of bread?"

I don't mean to sound desperate,

But the prospect is exciting,
Of bringing home the item,
I have no other chance of finding.

Each morning, for us both when he can,

My husband butters bread,
Toasts it,
And slathers it with jam.

I suppose it's not too special,

But it's his and I love him,
And in that moment, it's all I long for,
More than anything I can comprehend.

The woman looks through her produce,

And gives me Hostess,
Plastic-wrapped,
I probably look demented,
Sprinting off with bread held-fast.

I fiddle with my keys,

And throw open the door,
My husband sits there on the couch,
But nearly startles to the floor.

"I got the bread!" I gesture,

Teetering against the wall,
"Can you make us toast for dinner?"
His voice chimes, my lifeline,
"Sure, honey, why not?"

This time it's sugar and cinnamon,

The smell wafts down the halls,
I watch him spread the butter,
Feeling blinded by it all.

I bite down and my heart trembles-

I feel weepy. Don't know why.
The sweetness melts into my mouth.
It's good and simple; sacred.

My husband looks awry.

"Is it me..." He starts off,
Swallowing,
"Or does this taste better tonight?"

I think I want to say thank you.

Instead, I say,
"You're right."