xviii. What Happens After the Still Life?

A list of items that have mouldered in
My fridge: two heads of broccoli green that
Wilted and grew limp, sagging like the hour;
Five eggs from a full dozen, which I can’t
Eat, so they sit alone in fallow silence;
Orange juice, soured unimaginable.

The list could go on like so many days
Spent spoiling my appetite on dull guys.
Throwing each away feels like a form of
Anomia: except forgetting names
Like carrot or coffee is different
From forgetting that feeling of frayed fears.

Milk doesn’t spill all at once: first it leaks,
Then it smears like fingerprints on clean glass.