My Pot-Bellied Husband

My Pot-Bellied Husband

He stands like a proud little barrel,

Hands on hips, grin wide as the moon,

His shirt strains to keep the peace,

Buttons praying to make it through noon.

He says it’s proof of good living,

Of dinners shared and plates well cleared,

He rubs his belly with quiet joy,

And laughs when I call him weird.

There’s gravy on his favourite tie,

A biscuit tucked behind his chair,

He winks and calls it preparation,

For hunger that might appear from air.

Still, when he hugs, the world feels soft,

Like sinking into something kind,

His laughter shakes the floorboards loose,

And chases every care from mind.

At night he snores a thunder tune,

A symphony of deep content,

I smile and pull the covers tight,

And thank the stars for what they sent.