Shelf Life

I thought the pilot light had died

or the pipes were venting something

toxic into the small of the house.

But it was just the kale.

It’s a dark, swampy tea now,

pooled in the bottom of the drawer,

the physical evidence of a Tuesday

where I thought I’d be better than I am.

The plastic bag has fused to the glass,

a wet, sticky peel that sounds

like a bandage coming off a wound

that didn't heal quite right.