I commiserate with a sprig of yellowed kale,
wise and wrinkled, ready for the dumpster.
There is no cooking up an excuse to save
our leftover asses. No dish would like to mingle,
everyone’s cling-wrapped for a night or two of eating
out or, as the lasagne used to say, al fresco dining,
which, in Italian, means spending time in jail.
The casserole smirks from two shelves up, secure
in her one-bowl solution. She warms on the stove
in ten minutes or less, while those two slices
of bread huddle like a pair of refugee children,
always forgotten in the rush to smash an avocado
with butter and eggs for a better Instagram post. Ham
is scam, processed sham, and yet it saves forever.
About: Spring-cleaning for the new year always makes me a little reflective.