Leftovers

She won’t eat the sweet corn from the other night—forbidden vegetable
of store bought chicken and mashed potato dinner. The potatoes are
still in the running. Disappointed that I ate the last of the French Onion dip,
contradiction should also be foil wrapped for preservation. Water leaked
from the sour cream source as a milky brown liquid that required stirring
by spoon or finger. No way she would ever do that. Potatoes will suffer the same.

I bear the burden of leftovers. I cult mold from cheese slices, wash slime from
expired deli meat. Drink milk past due date, toss the top slice of bread instead
of the whole loaf. I eat stale chips and years old chocolate. I also poke at dead things.

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