A Trader's Supper
The screen's a sea of red and green,
A tide of noise, a tired scene.
Mia, fifty, with her silver thread,
Turns from the chaos in her head.
The kitchen calls, a different art,
A gentle rhythm for her heart.
She finds the mackerel, sleek and cold,
A story waiting to unfold.
With hands that once signed corporate deals,
She now prepares a meal that heals.
The fragrant sambal, hot and bright,
A small defiance of the night.
Lunar purrs, a low, soft hum,
The only voice that's ever come
To share this quiet, simple space,
Her love, her comfort, and her grace.
She eats alone, but not quite so,
A gentle warmth begins to glow.
For in this meal, this humble dish,
She finds the peace she longs to wish.
TESSA
Sept 3, 2025
