The red and white Campbell’s Beef Noodle Soup can,

created by heavy, hurting, hands, in a faded factory,

sits, idly.

 

It has the same mellow, metallic, touch as others of its kind.

It has the same lackluster label as others of its kind.

 

It has the

same

soggy

soup

as others of its kind.

 

The price, nineteen cents, is printed boldly on the lid,

and the can is shipped off to a shop in Manhattan,

where a man comes everyday to buy it.

The man, Andy is his name,

whips out two dimes, grabs the can,

and tells the storekeeper to keep the change.

 

He returns to his easel in his studio

and opens the can

and takes in the boring bland aroma of the soup

and he consumes it like his mouth is a black hole

devouring the universe of beef, noodles, and soggy soup.

 

Yet it doesn’t deter him from buying another,

and another,

until twenty years have gone by.

 

Andrew Li, 18, Singapore