Residuals

I reached in my pocket for a dime

but found the list from another time.

Leeks, heavy cream, a bottle of red.

The ink was blurred, like words left unsaid.

The funeral flowers have long turned to dust,

and the garden gate is a hinge of rust.

But the serrated edge of the soup can lid

sliced through my thumb, and the secret slid

out in a bright, sudden rush on the floor.

I’m crying over the onions, and more,

holding the paper against the wet gash,

watching the menu turn into a rash.