Gas and Plastic

The kitchen bulb gave up the ghost tonight,

leaving the humming shelves the only light.

I moved the mustard jars to see the back,

where cold air hides a stain and every crack.

A blue-rimmed bowl sits heavy in the dark,

from the week the world became a waiting room.

The plastic lid is bowed, a swollen arc,

holding in a small, fermented gloom.

There is a pressure growing in the deep,

of things I meant to eat but couldn't keep.

I leave it there, a greenhouse for the rot,

fearing the breath of everything I forgot.