Kitchen Sink Realism

The tuna can lid had a jagged lip,

and I was rushing, thinking of the clock,

until the sudden, hot slip

and the quick, rhythmic shock.

I watched it map the white ceramic plate,

a bright metallic smear, thick and slow.

It’s funny how we carry all that weight

until a metal edge tells it to go.

I’m tearing through the junk drawer for a wrap,

my thumb tucked tight inside my palm,

cursing the silence and the stupid trap

of a Tuesday afternoon that was too calm.