one small thing

each day at noon
i leave the office
and come to the park
and sit on the same warm
bench facing the sun,
to eat the lunch my
wife has made. sometimes
it's tuna, sometimes ham
on rye, with cheese.
occasionaly turkey
on slices of white bread
with mustard. nothing
fancy. and there is
always a cookie or
two, to be found, plus
an apple or plum,
and a note at the bottom
of the bag, a fresh
hand written note
with the words i love
you tucked inside. it's
folded neatly and
sealed with a lipstick
kiss. and this alone,
this one simple thing
that she does makes me
go home, and to not
stray, or to jump
in front of a train,
and to love her
equally in return.