The red and white Campbell’s Beef Noodle Soup can,
created by heavy, hurting, hands, in a faded factory,
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
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,
until twenty years have gone by.
Andrew Li, 18, Singapore