Mazie Louise Montgomery
May 28, 2009

I want to live inside an empty soup can, the label half-torn on the outside from cold rainwater.

I want the lip of the can to be rusty and sharp, so that people can't jump over the edge to steal my crock pot, or my lawnmower or my mother's diamond engagement ring.

I want the inside to be fire retardant, but not fire-proof, because some things are meant to burn.

I want the inside to be just-small-and-quaint-enough to be not-small and not-quaint and the interior designed by someone famous for not being famous.

And if people walk by, not noticing the empty soup can in any particular fashion, smacking their heels upon the pavement in a click-clack fashion

and thinking of what they might have left unplugged or plugged, unplugged or plugged,

unplugged or dammittohellandbackagain

like a coffee pot,

or a laptop computer,

and then rushing home to find out which was it if either,

I will be happy.