Cooking For One
Always the plastic containers,
leftovers maturing like potted gardens
stacked in gelid wastes
where pigs are plumped with peppers,
goat spooned into onions and cabbage.
The polar remains of once tropical meals
transformed into undocumented river craft.
A curried hash so ad hoc that it could be
the flotsam of a slaughtering hurricane.
Zipper bags squelch under my groping hand;
stomach turning, carefully wrapped debris
speak to my fingertips
more clearly than any danger sign could.
Dinners and snacks survive
as half-eaten life-forms
buried behind a white doored crypt.
Some, a few only
may be resurrected, only to be boiled
into innominate concoctions
by a cook who once loved them
far too much.
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