You cooked the ravioli, warmed
the marinara on my stove, plated
them just so, added a sprinkle of cheese
and placed the bowl before me with a smile.
I did not know for many months that you
do not like ravioli or even that kind of sauce,
but you had offered to cook, to conjure
a meal from the pitiful stores of my pantry.
You had not bargained for the truth of my self-
proclaimed empty reserves, yet undeterred, you pulled
jars from shelves, searched the fridge and poured
yourself into making dinner out of nothing for me.
Ann E. Wallace, Poet Laureate of Jersey City, New Jersey, is author of the poetry collection Counting by Sevens (Main Street Rag). She has published work in The Huffington Post, Wordgathering, Halfway Down the Stairs, Snapdragon, as well as MockingHeart Review and many other journals. She is online at AnnWallacePhD.com and on Instagram @annwallace409.