i tell myself, staring into
the white
glow
of the ice box.
the trash can
tilted nearby.
who's ranch dressing is that,
thousand island?
Paul Newman's
pear vinaigrette?
who put
this Marie's Blue Cheese
dressing
in here,
that fat bottle
stuck
in the corner,
the vinegar and oil
in a square
jar.
i read the small print
of expirations.
all of it ancient.
bought in another life.
in salad
happy times.
where did all of this come
from.
the caps
stuck tight.
the floating of strange gel
at the top
of each old liquid, unpoured.
it's time.
good Lord, it's time.
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