Late Can

The click of the can opener,

loud in the still house.

Minestrone, a forgotten thing

from the back of the shelf.

It was thick, a muddy red,

the vegetables too soft to chew,

just swallowed whole and gone.

Steam curled up, gray and thin,

into the yellow kitchen light.

My spoon, metallic, clicked the bowl.

Another night, another meal,

just me and this old can,

filling a hollow space inside,

but not quite full,

never quite full enough

to make the clock hands stop their creep.