Always the plastic containers,
leftovers maturing stacked in gelid wastes
where pork slumbers among the peppers,
chicken spooning with onions and cabbage.
The polar remains of once tropical meals
transformed into undocumented containers
to be opened far too late.
A curried hash so ad hoc that it could be
the flotsam of a ravenous hurricane.
Zipper bags squelch under groping hands,
carefully wrapped comestible debris
speaks to the eyes more clearly
than any warning 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
way too much.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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