Midnight Larder

The clang of the can cracked the silence

like a dropped coin in an empty street.

Steam rose in lazy spirals,

the kitchen light dull and waiting.

I ate standing, spoon scraping

the last of tomato and something salty,

soup sticky on my fingers,

cold street humming outside my window.

The empty can—dented, sticky—

stayed on the chipped counter

like a small witness to the night

and how it folds into itself

when there’s no one left to eat with.