The Back of the Shelf

The landlord sent a notice for the pipes

so I have to clear the graveyard in the crisper,

the wilted celery and the bags of green slime.

Then I see the Tupperware in the far corner,

the beef stew from the week the radiator died.

The lid is bowed under the pressure

of whatever is living inside the plastic now.

Opaque beads of sweat line the interior,

hiding a forest of gray, delicate fur.

I hold it like a live grenade

and walk it straight to the bin outside,

unwilling to witness the smell of November.