The Breathing Bag, Or, The Forgotten Green

A smell, you know, that gets inside

your throat, a place where things can hide

and turn to something else. A shame,

a silent, rotting, awful name.

Behind the milk, a slick, dark thing,

the spinach bag, not meant to bring

such sorrow, or this damp, earth reek.

I didn't buy it, so to speak,

or can't recall. Just shoved it back.

Now green sludge, down a slimy track.

The plastic bloats, it almost sighs.

A living, foul, decaying prize.

It clings, this liquid, to the side,

where good intentions went to hide

and died. A small, forgotten death.

I hold my breath, then catch my breath.

This slow undoing, in the cold,

a story that the fridge has told.

About neglect, a turning bad.

It's just some leaves, I tell myself.

But still, it makes me feel so sad.