Mystery Meat

It rolled out from under the spare tire,

a silver cylinder with no name.

The paper label had rotted to mulch

in some damp, forgotten game.

I opened it once with a pocket knife

because I couldn’t stand the doubt.

The lid was jagged, a row of teeth

keeping the gray secret out.

It’s been in the trunk for three moves,

a weight I’m too tired to explain.

Something old and preserved in salt

waiting for the end of the rain.