It sits there, amongst its brethren.
Thrown in the back, out of view...
behind his newer, pristine siblings.

Brought onto the shelf, exactly the same
as the rest; having the same goodness
sought by all who absolutely love soup.

Yet, this can is overlooked...
by virtue of a small tear on its label.
Condemned by an insignificant imperfection.

Encased in steel, lined with tin;
the delicious ambrosia is preserved
equally across its line.

Its label is a mere distinction
of what is truly of worth...
what's inside.