Hot Rice Poem by Noah Smits

Hot rice
on a cold day
January twelfth
with spice
in a saucepan
I made it myself

Uncooked
in a packet
dormant on the shelf
I looked
in my cabinet
and made it myself

Hot rice
is a trifling
thing for one to seek
but life
has an odd way
of passing a week

with chores
and commitments
grinding without end—
what bore
January
eleven and ten?

What yield
did I credit
toward my own wealth?
Hot rice
in a saucepan
I made it myself

So tame,
simple, shallow,
blind to how I feel:
my claim:
nothing special
just real, real, real, real.