Shelf Life

I haven't eaten anything real in two days.

The fridge light is a clinical white

that makes the empty wire racks

look like a ribcage.

Behind the bottle of cheap wine,

there’s a plastic tub I don't remember.

The lid is bowing upward,

a bulging dome of something gone wrong.

The handwriting on the tape is smeared.

I can’t even tell if it was mine.

I just leave it there in the back,

right next to the expired mustard.