Tin Lid, Quiet Heat

The can’s lid, peeled back slow — a reluctant metal sigh,

curling rusty like a old man's apology.

The soup’s steam, lukewarm, rises weak—

as if it forgot it was meant to comfort.

I spoon thick chunks of soggy carrot, stubble of celery,

flavors flattening like tired promises.

Late-night hunger, a brittle ache, gnaws through the silence

where no one stirs, no voices reach the cold kitchen.

Alone isn’t a word here,

it’s the slow clatter of an empty spoon

tapping the bottom like a soft, persistent knock.