Sharp Edges

The can opener grinds with a heavy, dull sound,

and the label is peeling, the glue turning brown.

I’m opening soup for a dinner of one,

waiting for something to finally be done.

The lid curls back slowly, a jagged, bright row

of silver-tooth bites that are starting to show.

A splinter of metal catches the meat of my thumb,

and the blood is a surprise, making me numb.

It’s a lot of work for a thin, salty broth,

while I’m wiping the counter with a stained piece of cloth.

You eat what you have when the pantry is lean,

and try to forget all the things that you’ve seen.