Heavy Syrup

The pantry is a graveyard of things I don't need,

half-empty boxes and packets of seed.

But tucked in the back, behind the old rice,

is a tin of pears swimming in ice.

I don't bother with a bowl or a chair,

just a plastic spoon and the kitchen air.

The syrup is heavy, a thick, sugary flood,

cooling the fire in my tired blood.

The edge of the lid is sharp and thin,

tasting of iron and cold, pressed tin.

I swallow the fruit and the silence too,

waiting for the morning to start something new.