I found the roll crushed behind the flour

I found the roll crushed behind the flour,

a silver cylinder gone lopsided and blunt.

It’s been sitting there for a lonely hour,

waiting for its turn in the kitchen front.

The sound of it tearing is jagged and thin,

a metallic shriek in the 9:00 PM air.

I folded it over the rim of the tin

to keep the cold pasta from drying out there.

It’s a temporary shield, bright and cheap,

shining under the light of the stove.

Some things are too small for a person to keep

in the back of the mind’s dusty grove.