Poetry, Writing

Perish No Memories

Feeling my fingers around the
Coldness of the
Food-
Chilled and left
Forgotten in the back.

I pick out the perished:
Moldy fruit,
Curdled milk,
Expired meat.
I throw it all away.
No pick and choose-
Whatever’s bad must go.

Useless satiates.
Nourishment tumbling to the
Bottom. The pit of an overflowing
metal bin, covered in handprints
and cans.

No pick and choose-
What’s good is known,
And the bad is easily weeded.
Ain’t no nonsensical questions over
the correct sequence of events for
protesting a divorce,
or how many shirts one should
really wear
on a Tuesday.

No, it’s just specks of green
on the crust.
And that’s all that
really matters
anyways.

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