Too much

She puts her purse on the floor. Finding a spot
between spots of rice and quinoa,
drops of aioli and old arugula leaves
is a challenge, but the purse sits clean(ish)
between her toes
in a restaurant she can't afford to eat at
too often.

But then, more often would be too much:
she has half a Cornish hen in the fridge
and a bag of kale she really should steam
before the week is up. And the strawberries
came from the farmer's market; she's
been craving ramen, which she'll shore up
with a couple of eggs and some peas.

More often would be too much,
she thinks,
and rescues a stick of hot fresh bread
from the basket, waiting for her friend
to join her for their weekly fancy feast.
Tonight will be wine; tomorrow
tap water.