The Same Can

Seven cans lined up on the counter—

I rinsed each one and didn't throw them out.

Not on purpose. The week just accumulated

the way a week does when you stop deciding things.

Cold beans, each night, standing

at the counter, not sitting,

as if sitting would've made it

a meal I'd have to account for.

Tonight I chopped an onion.

Used the stove. My eyes went

for longer than the onion required.

I let them.

The neighbor knocked for a corkscrew,

glanced at the cans lined up,

and said nothing.

Just handed back my silence

with both hands.