Silver Skin

Leftovers.

A bowl of pasta, half-eaten.

I reached for the roll,

that crinkled silver skin,

and fumbled.

Tore it.

Again.

This stuff, so thin,

so shiny,

reflecting the kitchen light

in distorted streaks,

my own face warped,

a stretched-out clown.

It’s supposed to seal,

to protect,

to keep things fresh,

but mostly it fights back,

tears at the wrong spot,

slips,

refuses to bend

the way I want it to.

A fragile shield,

always a little bit wrong.

Just like everything else

I try to cover.