An Apology to the Expired Vegetables in my Fridge
Oh Luscious Produce!
Your greens and yellows tantalize me
into freeing you from the supermarket’s crate.
Bedded in health, you grew under golden beams.
The hopes of creating something healthy, a salad
perhaps, were larger than the times allotted to me
for meals.
You are a well-meaning tempter, a seductress
signaling energy, nutrition, bettered life.
You beckon to me in the grocery store
like a shapely black dress on a sales rack.
“Pick me,” your vegetabled voice cries,
“think of all
the potential!”
And now, your stinking stench, your wretched wilted
leaves
do overcome all other scent in my refrigerator.
Rolling fuzzy green fields
on your pored surface have sprouted
and queried by the roommates
the reasons for my “science experiment” are.
Optimism bought you; neglect will end you.
In a life whose hours are labeled “no vacancy,”
granola bars and shrink wrapped cheese define the
norm.
So you, gracious green peppers and cheerful tomatoes
stoic lettuce leaves and earthy mushrooms
flowered broccoli and curvaceous bananas spotted brown
like a giraffe, are left to turn bad.
Your short-lived ripeness gives way
to ethylene overdoses and dark age splotches growing
increasingly larger.
Goodbye, my expired friends.
Your fragility and preparation demands
cannot coexist with the frenziness
of my life.
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