Cold Storage

It’s shoved behind the carton of the milk

that turned into a sour, lumpy curd.

The plastic lid is smooth as cheapened silk,

holding back a truth that's quite absurd.

A landscape made of blue-gray velvet fur

is blooming in the dark, behind the juice.

I haven't got the stomach or the stir

to find a way to cut the tension loose.

I slide the butter forward, block the view.

I’ll deal with all the rot some other night.

The fridge is full of things I never do,

hidden just away and out of sight.