Sadness

like leftovers we have every intention
of dutifully eating. Considering the money,
sheer waste, and the many needy, we
wedge the already drooping crusts into
too small containers, well knowing they
will be pushed back by the mustard jar
daily milk and bread to the back,
forgotten until the need to make order,
condense rises up, a revolt which is
also ruthlessness, banishing the haired
carrots, sprouted onions, wilted lettuce,
once succulent meat soaked too long in its
now congealed, fat flecked Turkish bath.

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