I open the fridge for the fifth time,
but nothing has changed.
I survey the leftovers—
several days old—
with a scowl.
I don’t throw them away
because maybe I will want them later,
but when I think of eating them now,
my stomach does a little flip.
Limp and lukewarm,
they would be microwaved sadness.
I would rather never eat again.
I want something new, fresh, hot,
its enticing aroma filling the whole house,
something so good
I want to eat and eat and eat,
and I have to force myself to put it away,
put it away for later,
and the container will sit on top of these leftovers,
and tomorrow I won’t want that either.