mid morning lunch

this

plastic piece of cheese,

in the fridge,

petrifying

since the last marriage,

back behind

the jar of French's

mustard,

with

hard rigid

edges,

what is it?

muenster, Swiss,

mozzarella,

or plain old American

formed

in a factory

by metal

hands and knives,

never to have known a drop

of milk

from a cow's teat,

cut

square

so that you can stack

it high,

once peeled,

on a slice of Wonder

bread and bologna.

i can't seem to open

the mustard

jar,

hand me the pliers.