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SOUP
by tj sullivan © 1997 all rights reserved
We saved soup labels
At least, that’s how I remember it starting
Campbell’s Soup labels filled the counter tops,
The cabinets,
The shelves in our little, blue kitchen,
Campbell’s Soup labels spilled out the silverware drawer
Mixing with the wooden spoons too large to fit in
The plastic bin that separated
Forks from butter knives and teaspoons,
Campbell Soup labels in the cupboard next to plates and bowls,
Campbell Soup labels stuffed beside the toaster and
The blender,
The one with the embroidered red rooster dust cover,
It seemed that’s all we ate,
Scotch Broth, Tomato, Chicken Noodle, Chicken with Rice
Chicken with Stars, Chicken Dumpling, Manhattan Clam Chowder
Split Pea Soup, soup, soup,
We saved them for school, a contest in a class,
Bring in the most labels, save the most and
Win, win, win
So we saved, because that’s what we did best,
We saved breakfast cereal box tops, A&P Green Stamps,
Macaroni and cheese proofs of purchase,
And,
Campbell soup labels,
The first were jaggedly torn, amateur beginnings,
But soon all of us were able to tear at the glued edge with expert precision,
Rolling them in batches of 25 with green rubber bands
Then stuffing them wherever they would fit,
Soup for lunch,
Soup for dinner,
Soup for colds,
Soup, soup, soup
At one point we began tearing the labels off the cans without
Eating the soup
Writing the names on the shiny metal cans with big, black Magic Markers
So we wouldn’t forget what was inside,
Scoring soup points on credit,
Soup, soup, soup
I don’t recall if we won anything,
I don’t remember any trophies or t-shirts,
Certificates awarded or plaques engraved with my name,
Just the start of something,
No ending,
We had an electric can opener, a prized kitchen possession,
The likes of which I have found no need for as an adult,
But it was so important then,
The first time I had to open a can by hand was on a camping trip,
Beef Noodle,
I was 11 years old,
It felt so primitive, like trying to unscrew a bolt w
Scissors,
No electric buzz, no twirling can below a tiny stethoscope magnet
I used to think that buzz was the key, so necessary for my soup,
It was the sound of comfort,
The promise of steamy bowlfuls boiled on our electric stove,
I took a Thermos of it to school for lunch everyday,
My mouth watering as I poured it in at breakfast time,
Holding the pot with both hands,
It was lukewarm by noon with a gelatin skin on top,
But I could guzzle it like milk,
Filling my belly with the affectionate broth,
Soup was good,
It wasn’t love, but it was easier to get and so much more filling.
At home I slurped it off teaspoons, my eyes glued to the
Black-and-blue tube in our living room
Soup, soup, soup
One day, while I was in high school, the can opener broke,
But the soup was still there,
On gloomy autumn afternoons, on solo Sunday nights,
I never saw a soup spoon until I went to college and noticed an
Extra bin
At the start of the cafeteria meal
Persimmon-colored plastic trays,
Little ladles so deep and round, the shape of satisfaction.
I stole one and took it back to my dorm room.
I put the spoon on the sink
Beneath the mirror
Next to the hot plate,
The aluminum pot and
The cans of soup,
Soup was oxygen in a sea of text books,
As friends stumbled about all night,
Sugar-blind from chip-and-candy machine meals,
I was blanket bundled with a bowl of soup, soup, soup
As lovers came and went,
Soup,
As rejection letters from publishers and editors slipped in,
Soup,
As bills piled up,
Soup,
As friends died,
Soup,
I’ve lived through 30 years and five states,
I’m on my fifth set of soup bowls,
I’ve lost count of how many saucepans I’ve dropped and replaced,
And although I don’t save the labels anymore,
My hardest , loneliest, most doubtful moments are still softened
By
Soup,
Soup cans are stacked like first-aid supplies in my cupboard,
Never allowed to diminish,
And that one,
Stolen
Soup spoon
Still
Sits
In my silverware drawer.
This poem is a work of fiction. Names, situations, places and characters are either the products of the author’s imagination or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is completely coincidental.