The Fifth Can

He reached, again.

His hand, a quick dart,

closing around the cold aluminum.

It wasn't even ten.

The hiss, familiar.

The clink as it joined the others,

a small metallic choir

of empty containers

lined up like soldiers

on his desk, his private army.

He doesn't call it anything.

Just 'keeping hydrated,'

or 'needing the fizz.'

But the way his fingers drum

on the plastic lid of the next one,

waiting its turn,

the twitch in his jaw.

It's a clock, almost.

A steady, quiet rhythm.

One more can.

Another small, controlled moment

of something he needs.

Something he always needs.

And the stack grows.