Three Cans, Different Years

I wasn't even hungry —

just standing in the kitchen

at that hour where the evening

hasn't become anything yet.

The pantry: one shelf of things

I bought on purpose,

one shelf of things I can't explain.

Three cans of the same condensed soup

in a row.

I turned them over.

Different expiration dates.

One was mine, from last month.

One was my roommate's — he left in the spring,

took the floor lamp, left the soup.

The third one I genuinely cannot account for.

Three of us,

at some point,

in some store,

decided: yes, this.

And brought it home

and put it on a shelf

and moved on.

I stood there for a while.

Then I closed the door

and ordered something

and ate it standing at the counter.