Sodium

The microwave is a dark box of nothing tonight,

so I’m standing over the sink with a tin

of condensed tomato. The opener's bite

is a metal-on-metal, high-pitched thin

shriek that probably wakes up the neighbors.

I don't have the heart for the blue flame of the stove.

I just want the salt and the sludge of the labors

of some factory line in a distant grove.

The bowl is white, but the rim has a stain,

an orange ghost ring that won't ever scrub out.

I drink it cold. It’s a dull, thick rain

hitting the back of a thirsty throat’s doubt.