Tin Foil Comfort

The microwave timer is the only clock

I trust right now. It counts down in green

while I stand here in one damp sock

feeling like a ghost in a movie scene.

I didn't use a bowl. I didn't use the stove.

I just peeled back the silver, sharp-edged lid

and let the smell of salt—a tiny cove

of processed comfort—hide what I did

with the rest of my day. I’m drinking it cold

straight from the tin, the tomato paste

sticking to the sides. I’m not being bold,

I’m just tired of the effort and the waste

of washing things. The kitchen is a tomb

of unwashed spoons and half-finished lists.

The blue light spills across the room

and for a second, the hunger almost subsists.