Fuzzy Salad

The fridge light, mean and cold and bright,

showed horrors hiding through the night.

That plastic tub, pushed to the back,

a slow, sweet rot, a green-white track.

It used to be a pasta thing,

now fungal colonies did cling.

A silent bloom, a fuzzy crown,

just sitting there, to bring me down.

Another failure, small and sour,

left festering, hour by hour.

I slammed the door, the scent still stuck,

this quiet rot, just my bad luck.