Non-Perishable

I dragged it out from the spiders

and the grey, matted insulation.

The bottom of the tin

screeched against the concrete

like a blade finding a stone.

It’s been here since before I moved in,

a label-less cylinder of rust

with a lid curled back

where the opener skipped a few teeth

and left a jagged, silver grin.

Whatever was inside is a dark sludge now,

smelling of vinegar and old iron.

I leave it on the porch steps,

the metal still humming

from the scrape of the dark.