Things are always rotting in the fridge,
but if I threw each out the moment
mold begins to sprout or leach into leftovers,
where would I find time for mending
a torn sweater?
Paint is always peeling,
flake by flake.
Bulbs turned on
are always burning out.
With every slurp of soup comes the slightest,
winded hurt: the thought of always-empty space
in the cupboard.
— Mary Alta Feddeman