The things that make me feel rich

Hot lomi, a thick noodle broth
no one can eat with their eyes open.

Or a tin of vienna sausage, devoured
in the middle of the night, a solitary delight

Yanking out a paper napkin from its box,
This is rich, this is almost profligate.

I wipe my mouth with that thought,
with a smile the world cannot see.

The weight of a heavy cotton robe,
post-bath, even if torn at the seams

Then there is a thick blanket,
especially when colder than comfortable,

Vast so I need not bend my legs
I pull it up to my neck and I am loved.