Science  Write  Now

I turn to pick up four empty cans,

turn to place them

on the narrow conveyor belt.

 

The cans are steel, plated with tin.

Pure tin, when deformed,

makes a sound — the ‘tin cry’.

 

It will do this over and over

until it snaps. Another day,

another line. I check the code

 

on the top of each can.

Reject the non-conformers

and the dented, where tin’s

 

crucial seal might be ruptured.

Three times a day

the machines grind to silence.

 

While others seek coffee,

sustenance, chat,

I chain smoke in the toilet.

 

Next year I’ll implode. My life’s

shiny surface breached,

revealing the old corrosion.