Those silver cans of
government meat, set
on the table with a red
and white checkered
tablecloth.
An old yellow light hung
on a chain illuminating
the can of meat.
It tasted like flavorless
gum.
It seemed like a mish-mash
of byproducts that no one
else wanted.
Mom always tried to make
a casserole out of it, but no
amount of pasta or sauce
would fix that roadkill.
Mom hid the cans in the
trash. Tried to bury it
beneath empty packages
of mushrooms and onion
skins.
I’d dig lightly, and there it
was.
That silver government can.
Shadows for dinner.
A silhouetted pig, cow, or
chicken, made a cameo
on the can.
They reminded me of those
horrid souvenirs from
Disneyland that hung
above the antique organ.
As a boy, I’d look up to see
one of my brothers or sisters
likeness splayed out on the
wall in a creepy silhouette of
horror.
Deathlike, dark, and final.
It was like they caught the animal
at the
last stand.
Death and then eaten.
I know that’s why I’m
here.
Never had canned meat but I have some stories about poverty food from when I was a kid.
This hit home.
Love it.
Thank you. Much appreciated.
Hello Thomas. For some reason I couldn’t click on the thumbs up to give you a like, but I wanted to say that this piece was mesmerizing and raw. Loved it!
Thanks.
Cleverly penned, Thomas. Death in a can, it’s not like the old timers who would tell you government cheese was fucking the best grilled cheese ever. Great storytelling and great imagery. Appreciate you.
Damian
I appreciate it.