expiration dates are for the weak

i find

a box in the basement,

dusty

and wet with mold,

the top says

kitchen

on it, written in bold

black

magic marker.

someone else's handwriting,

not mine.

i open it

up.

it's been there for years,

twenty years

to be exact.

there's a box of

quaker oats

in there, pepper and salt.

sugar,

brown and white.

there's cinnamon

and nutmeg,

a bowl and a spoon.

i carry it all up to the kitchen.

it's breakfast time.