on hands and knees

time

to clean out the fridge.

good lord.

what

is that.

what's this. no date,

no label.

just a jar with something

green and alive

in it.

maybe evolution is true

after all.

two heads of lettuce

gone soft

and brown.

six bottles of thousand

island

dressing, not mine.

eggs, cracked

and spilled inside their

little cups.

pickles from another era,

another time.

whose wheat germ is this?

whose

half of a sandwich

of ham

on rye?

an orange from last summer

hiding between

a lemon and a lime.

i take out the mysteries

of the Siberian

top door shelf,

meats and fish,

an eggplant dish,

banished to the cold never

to be seen

or opened.

never to be eaten,

or grow old.