Chef Boyardee at 3 AM

The microwave hummed like a failing heart.

I sat on the linoleum and waited

for the beep that sounds like a flatline.

The can was dented, a bargain bin find

from the week the paycheck stopped coming.

I ate it cold in the middle, hot on the edge,

sliding the soft, square pillows of dough

into a throat tight with the taste of copper.

When the bowl was empty,

an orange grease ring remained,

a permanent stain on the white plastic.

It looked like a sun setting on a life

I didn't recognize anymore.