Leftovers

The roll makes a sound like a sheet of dry tin,

I’m wrapping the lasagna that’s cold in the bin.

The edges are sharp and they bite at my thumb,

waiting for footsteps that haven't quite come.

I press down the silver, I crinkle the side,

a bright metal place for the dinner to hide.

The stoneware is heavy, the kitchen is quiet,

a one-person plate in a one-person riot.