Cold Storage

The leftovers are cold inside the pan.

I pull the silver sheet across the glass

to prove I have a sort of future plan,

or just to watch the hungry minutes pass.

The box has teeth, a sharp and rusted row

that bit my knuckle when the metal tore.

It gave a shriek to let the kitchen know

that I don't really live here anymore.

I press the crinkled edges to the rim.

It holds the shape of everything it kills.

The light inside the kitchen's getting dim,

and foil won't pay the heat or grocery bills.