Culling the Fridge

The date on the plastic says tomorrow

which is a polite way of saying it's done.

There’s a limit to how much time you can borrow

before the souring has finally won.

I pour a glass and it’s thin and white,

leaving a chalky ghost on the rim.

I sit in the kitchen in the middle of the night

watching the overhead bulb go dim.

The carton hits the bin with a heavy thud

and I leave the ring on the table to dry.

It’s a pale little circle of stagnant mud,

a quiet way to tell a very old lie.