Packaged Soup

it is dark
in that way that I enjoy
though a little light sneaks in
stretching surreptitious fingers
across the mexican tile

pensive
in this free moment
while I wait for the packaged soup
to come to its boil
maybe it is just the staring
and waiting
sensing that unrest
beneath the thickened skim

a wondering sigh
leaves its fingerprint of fog
on the glass
while my fingers leave
their own
somehow the warmth
and breathing fullness
of the world outside my window
sneaks in
and something unsettling
settles

maybe
it is just a lingering remnant
of a childhood warning
"don't smudge the glass"
or maybe
it is something more

then again
it could just be a mental tugging
a subliminal message
from my soup

"eat me"