Soup

I am a can of soup. I am being recycled. Because I was used up. Even as a can made of solid metal… I get tired. Of the clanging of other cans around me. Of the sounds of machines. A can of whipped cream was wondering about me. I think I used to contain chicken noodle soup. But I don’t know for sure. And I don’t think I ever really knew. I was a can of soup. Maybe it was chili. Or cream of mushroom. If I was a person, I would carry around organs inside of me. But instead, I have nothing. Still alive but clanging as if against prison bars. An empty sound. Is just part of the cycle.