Reflections on a Shiny Surface

The box is battered, the cardboard flap torn away,

leaving those jagged silver teeth exposed.

I pull a sheet that fights me, screaming off the roll,

a frantic metallic static in the quiet kitchen.

I’m smoothing out the wrinkles of a piece I used before,

trying to make it fit the cold rim of the lasagna.

My palms press down the ridges and the sharp peaks,

forcing the metal to remember a shape it didn't want.

It’s a cheap way to save what’s already getting old.

I look at my face in the distorted, crinkled shine,

a funhouse version of a person just trying to keep

the air from getting to the things I haven't finished.