Expiration Dates

The fridge light is humming a low, steady note

that feels like a headache behind my eyes.

I’m looking for something to coat my throat,

something to quiet the hunger and lies.

I bought the half-gallon for a breakfast for two,

back when the morning was something to share.

Now I’m standing here in the cold and the blue,

breathing the stale and the motionless air.

When I tilt the carton, it doesn't quite splash;

it lands in the sink with a thick, clotted thud.

A sour white ghost of a sudden car crash,

or a memory turning to vinegar and mud.

It’s been there for weeks, just taking up space,

waiting for a mouth that isn't coming back.

I pour the whole mess down the drain without trace

and watch the white disappear into the black.