The smell started subtle just a hint

The smell started subtle, just a hint

of something gone sour, a quiet tint

to the air. Now it’s full-on, a thick dread.

It’s past ignoring it, past being unsaid.

Pulled it out, a clear plastic box, forgotten,

pushed to the back. What was spinach is rotten.

A liquefied mass, dark green, then black,

a furry surface, no turning back.

It smells like wet earth, like a shallow grave,

a tiny forest where nothing could save

the leaves. I hold my breath, then throw it out.

But the ghost of that odor still lingers about.