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.