The Plastic Lid

The lid fogged from the inside out,

like something trapped in there held doubt.

My name on the label, already peeling—

that corner curled up with the feeling

of fingers pressed down one too many times.

The casseroles disappeared first.

The bread was gone before I could burst

through to fill my plate. But mine stayed there,

plastic catching the fluorescent glare,

sweat beading on its clear shell.

I stood and watched them eat

their contributions, watched how neat

it all went down. Their offerings gone quick

while I watched my careful pick—

my trip to the store, my choice to bring

something I didn't make, something

I just selected off a shelf. For what it's worth,

the label finally peeled, came loose.

I carried it outside like I'd produced

something shameful, something to hide—

the store-bought proof I'd tried.