Spinach Monster

Opened the crisper, reached for a lemon, yellow and bright,

and found instead a horror, in the dim, stale light.

A bag of spinach, once green, now a fuzzy, dark land.

A living, pulsing creature, in my very hand.

Black mold tendrils, green fur, a terrible, moist bloom.

The smell hit first, a sweet, aggressive fume.

Like death in miniature, a tiny, terrible art.

It made my stomach clench, my throat feel tart.

This used to be food, a healthy, fresh thing.

Now a monster, a silent, sickening spring

of decay, in my own clean, cold machine.

A vibrant, disgusting, forgotten scene.

I threw it out fast, but the scent still clung,

to my fingers, my nose, to the very air hung.