Leftover Rot

The green sprawls beneath plastic,

tentacles of mold spreading like a map

no one asked for,

a cold, silent city of decay.

I open the fridge—hit by sour breaths,

a spill of days forgotten,

a slow melt of what was once food,

a slow death in cold light.

The tub cracked open, an invitation

for smell to climb into my nostrils,

slick and fuzzy,

a foul growth ignoring my gaze,

a warning that time doesn’t wait,

not for me, not for leftovers,

just the slow rot that’s left behind.