Tinned Warmth

The house is a big, dark, breathing thing,

and my thoughts, they keep on taking wing.

Midnight, and sleep won't come to me,

just the quiet hum of electricity.

The only sound that felt quite right,

was the dull, tin clang in the fading light.

The opener turned, a grinding spin,

and the thick, orange sludge, poured from within.

Tomato soup, from a can, again.

A salty warmth, a simple friend.

Steaming, cheap, a childhood taste,

no energy to let it go to waste.

Just stirring it slow, a quiet peace,

a temporary, small, profound release.