to toss
that browned, once green
head of
iceberg lettuce?
i stare
at the Gulag
of the bottom drawer
in the cold
fridge.
what else should i give
pardon
to and release
with a strong fling into
the woods?
the soft
red onion, the tangerine
from last summer?
celery,
poor old celery.
i don't want you anymore.
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