2015 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 27

I’ll admit it. I feel like I’m limping to the finish line with my experiment to write a story in verse. Some of the prompts kept me moving in a straight line, but I’ve been twisted around a bit the past week or so. Oh well, I’ve got plenty of stuff to revise and re-create in December and beyond.

For today’s prompt, write a leftovers poem. With Thanksgiving in the rear view, many people may have leftover food in their refrigerators. Others may wish they had leftovers. Regardless of the holidays, some folks feel like leftover people or that they live a leftover life.


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Here’s my attempt at a Leftovers poem:

“No Leftovers”

The one thing about being a vampire
is that we don’t do leftovers,
not because we’re picky;

rather, we’re allergic–
as feeding on cold blood
causes us a hot death.


roberttwitterimageRobert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of the poetry collection, Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). He edits Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market, in addition to writing a free weekly WritersMarket.com newsletter and a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine.

This is his eighth year of hosting and participating in the November PAD (Poem-A-Day) Chapbook Challenge. He can’t wait to see what everyone creates this month–not only on a day-by-day basis, but when the chapbooks start arriving in December and January. Fun, fun, fun.

Follow him on Twitter @robertleebrewer.


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99 thoughts on “2015 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 27

  1. seingraham


    At the end of days when the hours are spooling down
    and you get to review life, and all the things done and
    not done
    What are the aspects that would be most rewarding
    What glimpses afford one heart-gladdening pauses
    And which moments do you stutter over, wishing they
    hadn’t happened at all

    As your years speed up as they tend to,
    the older you become
    Do you notice yourself living each moment with more
    intensity, or are you more laid-back
    Becoming further relaxed, letting the twilight
    of your life wash over you
    As you prepare to fade into the end with grace

    It occurs to me as I pass from the autumn
    to the winter of my life,
    that I want to live every moment as if it’s my last
    That the thing I’d hate more than anything, is to die
    leaving parts of my life unfinished
    I suppose I’d consider all the parts like that, my leftovers
    And I don’t want any leftovers left over, on my watch.

  2. Alaina Dawson

    -leftover lovers-

    we tossed and turned together in a tangle of blankets, all gifts from previous holidays, a variety of colors swirled around us
    little pieces of tag, still hanging on so many years later, finally falling off from the incredible effort we both put into fucking each other
    the pieces of contradicting fabric chastised our selfishness with tiny shocks of friction, just surprising enough for us to reconsider, even if for just a second
    muffled laughs and one final show of exertion, the blankets slowly fell to floor as the last thrust left us both breathless and disgusted at both each other and our own selves
    quietly wiping away the last of the evidence from the immediate pasts affair, he handed me the leftover liquid from this afternoons innocence
    and as we sat on the floor with cold mugs of use-to-be warm coffee, i considered the blankets in the new light of the moon, used abused and pushed away for something better

  3. tobysgirl

    My Leftovers

    Once my best friend, now you are nothing.
    You wanted my leftovers and I told you to go ahead, partake,
    but I wanted to hear nothing,
    about what you did, where you went, what you talked about.

    And yet,
    you couldn’t keep your fat trap shut.
    The thing about leftovers is this-
    they go bad.
    You realize that most of the time they aren’t as good as the original.
    You chose my leftovers over our friendship.
    Nothing lasts forever.

    Let me reiterate,
    YOU are nothing.

  4. browdd22


    Turkey spoiled
    Family spoiled
    Grateful on the day of
    Ungrateful after
    Leftover fights from the holidays
    Carried on over today
    I’m under the table covering my ears
    Please, please, PLEASE

  5. Valkyri

    leftover lover

    we found a feral mama cat
    kits spread out from
    garbage pile to garage
    five little lost ones
    tiny crying mewling babes
    four manx one tabby
    two manx tan two manx black
    and tabby little fat boy fine
    bring them all inside get warm
    their poor closed eyes needed
    warm compresses and salve
    little sores treated with betadine
    they nursed from bottles
    they fought five for four nips
    baths because they couldn’t keep clean
    then the anemia set in
    fudge lilybelle cream then sugar
    faded faded faded faded
    some real fast three hours and gone
    sugar fourteen hours of hell
    in our arms these sweet souls died
    now mister roly-poly puddin’ pie
    my lonely tabby leftover lover

  6. deringer1

    You say that you love everyone,
    but I’m a person too.
    The love you have leftover, dear,
    is all I get from you.

    I leave this note for you today,
    you’d better find a lawyer,
    for I am tired of loving you,
    and so I’ve left—it’s over.

  7. Domino


    I never used to have them,
    The kids ate every bite of dinner,
    often went back for more,
    and after dessert
    if they were still hungry,
    there was fruit, or bread and butter,
    or a fold-over PBJ.

    But now I can’t seem to stop
    making giant meals
    and the two of us
    can’t possibly eat all that.

    Sometimes I freeze the extra meals,
    but often forget,
    and feel somehow responsible
    for all those starving kids
    in China.

  8. SarahLeaSales

    Leftover Children

    The world mourned
    those who died,
    but those who lived
    and were left behind
    were mourned by no one,
    for we were called the lucky ones.

    Our faces did not grace magazine covers,
    our names will not be remembered,
    for we were the leftover children.
    Then came the replacement children
    who brought about new beginnings,
    while marking the end of the line.

  9. Stuart Peacock

    Leftovers of a Past Life

    Looking over old photos now
    With a wearier pair of eyes,
    We coldly question ourselves
    And cringe at the clothes we wore.

    Lost friends loom back at us,
    We wonder where they are now
    Whether they are thinking of us
    Or if they remember us at all.

    Some show the simpler times
    Where hair and dreams were wilder
    And we stayed out far beyond
    The booming bells of midnight.

    Even if there is a tinge of regret
    For our wild rambunctious ways
    We still hang onto the evidence
    For when we need soothing nostalgia.

    1. ppfautsch24

      Holiday Leftovers
      Leftovers are good for the soul,
      making holiday memories as every plate
      is piled high and from every empty bowl.
      Thanksgiving dinner and family stories told
      around the table.
      The holiday season unfolds.
      As holiday leftovers are to behold.
      By Pamelap

  10. Pat Walsh

    by Patrick J. Walsh

    some vague hint of motion
    at the edge of the clearing
    brought him half around
    just when they had nearly
    settled on staying the night
    in the woods

    masquerading as a shadow
    the movement took form
    while he counted the steps
    from where they stood
    to the safety
    of the truck

    grayly alive in the smoke
    of gathering darkness
    a small cloth draped around
    its head like half a cloak
    the vague figure revealed itself
    an old man

    for a timeless instant
    they stood and watched
    two together and one alone
    each unable to compose
    any idea of forward motion
    in the encounter

    when finally she spoke
    it sounded like the
    greeting of a sparrow
    so unguarded and genuine
    in its pleasant
    breath of welcome

    the old one echoed her greeting
    but sounded entirely different
    his tone and tenor making clear
    all he had been through
    and the sad fact that he
    was now alone

    saying nothing more
    the apparition then vanished
    as though swallowed whole
    by the gathering darkness
    its leaving as unsettling
    as its appearance

    while they drove on hours later
    he wondered at the
    strangeness of the times
    while she marveled
    at how normal life could
    still sometimes be

  11. angieinspired

    Striking Bonebreak

    her rotary phone,
    the microphone
    Dwight D.
    projected into
    for a news

    her periwinkle
    sky &one
    leftover popcorn
    popper gifted
    to the Fire Dept.
    burnt up for
    lack of knowledge.

    her north &south
    wall murals,
    Disco Bob’s
    balcony chair
    to Historical

  12. Kendall A. Bell

    The remains of the day

    The basement, filled with boxes and plastic
    bins of old pictures, stuffed animals and
    framed pictures that hold a thin layer of
    dust. Your work table, piled with folded
    sheets and blankets, a long dormant sewing
    machine. Shoes strewn around the creaking
    pergo planks upstairs. Ziploc bags of lip
    balm and old greeting cards I gave you on
    birthdays and holidays. The smell of several
    bottles of peppermint lotion, unmoved from
    your dresser. The hard punch into the left
    side of my back, where the bed makes me ache.
    The mattress closest to the wall, to the
    furnace, held in suspension inside a small
    beam of winter sunlight, your light long
    removed through ground level windows.

  13. PKP

    The Leftovers

    We sit with bent backs
    and shadow smiles in
    corridors and rooms
    waiting with wringing
    hands blue veined –
    soft as tissued paper
    We sit in patience,
    vacant smiles and
    sometimes a tear or
    two – wait -for those
    who never seem to
    find the time
    to arrive…

  14. tunesmiff

    G. Smith (BMI)
    Something’s being cooked up in the kitchen,
    Something’s being cooked out on the grill;
    I know I won’t be sitting at the table,
    When your backdoor man comes ’round to have his fill.

    I always serve up,
    The best that I can do,
    Why do I get leftover,
    Love from you?
    Whybdo I get leftover,
    Love from you?

    There’s a big old bag of groceries on the counter,
    And another one to come in from the truck;
    I can put ’em all away here in the pantry,
    But it looks like once again I’m out of luck.

    And I always serve up,
    The best that I can do,
    Why do I get leftover,
    LoLoveve from you?
    Why do I get leftover,
    Love from you?

    You know I’ll wash and put away the dishes,
    Wipe the table and clean off the stove;
    Make sure everything is nice and tidy,
    And keep denying what everybody knows.

    I always serve up,
    The best that I can do,
    Why do I get leftover,
    Love from you?
    Why do I get leftover,
    Love from you?

  15. elishevasmom

    Leftovers (not)

    There is only one thing more
    difficult than accepting
    help, and that is asking

    for it. And I can say this
    from a position of having
    not too long ago been there

    in person. The organizations
    that help the needy are
    many. If you are looking

    to do your part, the donation
    is easy and does the job.
    The food and shelter will

    be provided. And if, while
    you’re at it, you bring along
    last year’s left over gloves

    and coats—pause for a
    moment. For a little more,
    give a new coat and gloves,

    with the price tags on. When
    the recipient puts it on, they
    can close their eyes and

    imagine they are trying on
    their own new clothes, without
    having had to ask for them.

    You will have donated dignity.

    Copyright © Ellen Evans – 2015
    day 148 of 365
    day 27 PAD 11.15

  16. ReathaThomasOakley


    We ate out on Thanksgiving so today
    we head to a diner for bacon, a rare treat,
    and eggs, make jokes about Black Friday
    hoards madly rushing from store
    to store. I pay little attention to the gentleman
    navigating his walker between tables until I realize
    he’s behind us. Don reports he’s sorting mail.
    I hear him stop another man about his age
    and ask, “What branch were you in?” How did they
    identify each other, I wonder, as I listen to old
    war talk until the walking man joins his wife.
    At the register Don tells the gal he wants to pick up
    the old soldier’s tab and she tells us he’s a regular.
    I think it’s highly probable there are leftovers
    in diners everywhere on Black Friday and every day.

  17. Pattili

    Three’s Company

    She dreamed leftover dreams
    and wore leftover memories
    from a time she thought
    she mattered and was the only one

    He dreamed leftover dreams
    from a time he said
    he would give her the world…
    but now his world
    has changed-

    She dreamed leftover dreams~
    crying tears
    leftover from last time
    from before he left overnight …
    Taking all of her hopes and dreams with him

  18. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Sitting at my mother’s table
    Meant taking part of true perfection
    Her creation of home and family
    Let nothing undone
    Everything was attended to
    Fresh new décor
    Food preparation was excellent
    Down to the last detail
    Served beautifully
    Through years of experienced attention
    With her amazing cooking skills
    Each dish a wonder all its own
    Traditional meals perhaps
    Done with a genuine gourmet flare
    Each guest in correct attire
    Fitting for every situation
    Each holiday a work of domestic art
    Start to finish
    Perfection in motion
    Whether one stood back
    Or was up close
    Finger on the pulse
    Nothing was ever out of place
    If there were left overs
    Even they were put away
    Using care and precision
    Yet when the excellent meal was finished
    People began to leave
    Ending this consistently wonderful, satisfying time
    What remained, left over
    A deep sense, an obvious longing
    For a more fulfilling connection
    Between the great hostess herself
    And those who attended her feasts
    The tasty food
    The perfection in motion
    The most beautiful settings
    Stood out
    Standing out still as great memories
    Remaining, too, are the left over feelings
    She could present it all without error
    And yet never actually serve us what we most craved
    A real connection to her
    The real satisfaction
    She actually loved us all being there
    She is gone now
    Present and alive only in my heart
    Pictures in my mind of her outstanding domestic skills
    With left over sadness
    Remembering at all times, sitting at her table
    I was never actually close to my mother
    And her most amazing presentations
    Remain with me
    How she could best serve her idea of love
    Fulfilling us all
    Through beauty and perfection in motion
    Serving food instead of or in place of love
    Offering the perfection of presentation
    While she withheld herself
    My memories are full of all that perfection
    Left over is missing being at her table
    Even if the best of her was always missing too

  19. candy


    I wonder
    if the moon dreads the sun rise
    when the party’s over and
    the stars take off their

    dancing shoes
    moonbeams pack up
    their instruments until
    the next gig

    the silky black curtain
    is lifted and
    daytime sun gives a
    solo performance

    there is no room for a
    leftover moon

  20. Jane Shlensky


    “Waste not, want not,” his daddy says
    every time he drops a broken or used
    up something into his shop barrel.
    Spark plugs, broken chains, plow
    blades, bent metal from balers
    and harvesters, old trucks,
    and hand tools. His theory
    that leftovers, even broken,
    have a use defies logic,
    but he sees his dad’s eyes
    sparkle over a barrel
    of re-imagined junk,
    resurrected, rendered useful,
    whole, entirely new.
    “Just think,” he says to the boy.
    And so, he does.

  21. Jane Shlensky


    They’ve been eating leftovers
    for thirty years, barely
    remembering first offerings—
    thrills and chills of unknowns,
    the promise of sweet and savory,
    the advent of a love
    that withstands challenges.

    He sits manning the remote
    thumbing through reruns,
    his plate empty on the TV tray,
    grunting a monotone groan
    to her every mealtime comment.
    She feels leftover herself,
    still palatable but not what
    she once was. She’s tired
    but oddly comforted by
    talking to herself, creating
    imaginative ways to serve up
    the same old thing.

  22. Shennon

    Great grandma
    was thrilled
    to have leftover turkey.

    She said
    great grandpa
    loved turkey sandwiches.

    She enjoyed
    our company
    but hanging her head,

    She confessed
    a recent
    addition to cheese puffs.


  23. Jean Kay


    Hot turkey sandwich with gravy,
    or cold with cranberry sauce,
    I look forward to leftovers
    when roast turkey was the main course.

    The carcass goes into the soup pot
    with onion, carrots and celery.
    Our house smells of turkey again
    as we wait for the broth patiently.

    Then in goes rice or noodles,
    salt, pepper and seasonings,
    small pieces of leftover turkey.
    Good nourishment that soup brings.

  24. Jean Kay

    Leftover Porridge

    To this day, I don’t like porridge
    cooked on the stove in a pot,
    but I had to eat it as a child
    whether I liked it or not.

    Seven of us in our family.
    My Dad would make porridge each day.
    I was the second youngest,
    I ate when others were on their way.

    I’d get the lumps in the bottom,
    that’s what was leftover for me.
    “Be grateful you have something to eat.”
    is not such a good memory.

  25. Jolly2

    by John Yeo

    The family were gathered to hear the reading,
    The distinguished solicitor looked round the room,
    He caught the tear-stained eye of a lady in scarlet
    In sharp contrast to the universal mourning black.

    A moment of silence when the family finally calmed.
    The sobbing matriarch and her grieving daughter
    Two sons and their wives and families and more,
    Waited expectantly as the respected solicitor began.

    This is the last will and testament of a literate man
    “I lived my life to the full, working long and hard,
    I did my best for everyone of you gathered here
    I have lived and loved as happily as a writer can.

    I was never very wealthy, just comfortably wise,
    That I have no fortune should be no surprise.
    After I have paid my final accounts,
    I leave the leftovers to my very dear friend
    Who met and stayed with right to the end.”

    Copyright (c) Written by John Yeo ~ All rights reserved.

  26. Misky

    Living Those Leftover Days

    I once thought you have to be deliberate if you want to find happiness. I mean, take a story with a happy ending – it’s hard to find any leftovers in a happy ending – it’s an iron door that slams closed, but a priest, now he’s deliberate. He plants every line of a sermon in your skinny head for a week’s worth of leftovers. You leave church with the essence of his words burning on like cinnamon. And Dad always said, it takes no courage to look into an abyss, but it’s a different story to jump into one. I miss my dad; he was full of leftovers. But there are a few exceptions to that leftover rule, one being poetry, I suppose – deliberate poetry is at par with prudery. Or sonnets. Leaves you feeling like you’re living in someone else’s leftover days. I write poems, listen to music, fall in love – daily – over and over with the same person – arrange flowers, smile at the dog, bake for the aroma of it, and by Tuesday I feel suffocated by all that leftover happiness. Truth be told, sometimes I’d rather live in the moment like a stroppy pig at a trough.

    I think of my father
    when weather’s miserable
    and always smile

  27. charmuse

    Banking on Yoga

    beseeching palms
    cupped for alms
    a beggar’s pose
    where limbs repose
    leftover leverage
    due from the age
    of ageless ancients
    whispers prescient
    raise my heels
    poised to feel
    wealth is lent
    when spirit’s spent

    — Charise Hoge

  28. Sally Jadlow

    Sorry. I must have read before I hit submit. I’ll try to get it right this time. Excellent poems, you all!

    Leftover Poem


    She said to me,
    “I feel like everyone has picked at me
    like a Thanksgiving turkey.

    A piece gone here and another there.
    Been scattered everywhere.
    There’s no more there, there.

    Nothing left of me but bones.
    Headed for a trash heap home.”
    Then gave a little groan.

    My heart went out to this poor soul
    as I handed her hot soup in a bowl.
    Prayed she’d pull her out of her black hole.

  29. taylor graham


    One crystal wine glass, survivor of a wedding gift of four, shall we pass it between us to toast the passing years?
    Most of a 14-lb turkey, visions of future tetrazzini, BBQ sandwiches, enchiladas, turkey-carcass stew….
    My mother’s platter for hors-d’oeuvres, safe on its shelf, I never use it anymore.
    On the floor, shreds of catalogs the puppy got hold of; we won’t do Black Friday.
    This old rope-tug, favorite of Cody (now dead), a training reward for puppy Trek the shredder.
    Pumpkin pie for lunch, un-leftover hours from now.
    The man Cody found, one Thanksgiving Eve, sleeping behind a motel dumpster – he spoke sweetly to her and she licked his hand.
    The same old sun rising, making gold-tarnish oaks and grassy hill look new as another morning.

  30. JanetRuth

    Dealing With Leftovers…

    We work with what remains of what we had
    The lurking Imminence of what will be
    Does not deter from our touch the thread
    That weaves, with what we have, a memory
    Yesterday’s leftovers begin Today
    My, my, how often we forget this truth
    How some things never really go away
    Cause and effect is fearless and uncouth
    …and though the night washes the day with stars
    It does not sever it from morrow’s bars

    We work with what remains of what we held
    This common bond binds all humanity
    How soft and subtle supple moments meld
    What ‘once we held’ into a legacy
    Ah, pray that what we leave behind is kind
    Then morning will not seem so destitute
    If we keep this one paradox in mind
    We cannot trade our portion of past’s fruit
    Time’s forward-flow is like a farmer’s field
    Where what we sow will surely bear its yield

    We work with what remains, but this firm rod
    Is not a curse; morning’s unmarred refrain
    Is like a mercy-gift from gracious God
    And it is not too late to try again
    The leftovers imposed upon our gaze
    Can be transformed; this ephemeral string
    Is not bound to misfortune’s ruthless ways
    But is that Thing of Hope to which we cling
    We work with what remains and as what we do
    The grace of God will guide and love us through

  31. Walt Wojtanik


    Thanksgiving is over,
    hidden in foil covers and thoughts
    of sandwiches and “a la king” bring a sick feeling.

    But I’m have no time for dealing with that.
    We’ve donned out thinking caps and wrap
    our heads around the sights and sounds of the season.

    It is akin to treason to not jump in.
    Time will fly, and elves and I have much to do.
    You write your letters and lists of wishes

    and dismiss the reasons to celebrate.
    And it is getting late to amend your demeanor.
    A cleaner slate would be great if only you’d comply.

    We’re heading down the home stretch,
    so we catch our collective breath and dig in.
    And so it begins. The “Next Big Thing” will ring

    from this point on unit; the new year.
    And it is clear, we’ll work right through ’til January thaws.
    I am a busy Santa Claus!

  32. Nancy Posey


    “I’m gonna sit at the banquet table one o’ these days.”—Spiritual

    The chairs are pushed back from the dinner table now
    and the picture-perfect dinner lies in shambles.

    The bird now a mere carcass; the sweet potato casserole,
    nothing but a smear of yam and browned marshmallow.

    Now that the pans of homemade rolls are gone, someone
    had found the loaf bread from the pantry to sop up gravy.

    The debate over the superiority of smoked turkey over brined,
    cranberry relish over the wobbly stuff in cans, is now passé.

    Offerings of desserts elicit groans of sated pleasure. Nothing
    now. But no one suggests standing, moving into the den.

    Unspoken is the understanding that once we leave the table,
    this happy band of pilgrims will break up; someone will leave,

    setting off the inevitable ritual of departure back to home,
    wherever that may be, dismantling this band of leftovers,

    who arrived by pairs or alone, accepting this invitation, this grace,
    without family here in this town, to become family for one day.

  33. Anthony94

    Beyond the Burn Pile

    Leftovers are the fruits
    of the season. Honeysuckle
    strung like fairy lights, the
    bulblets of bittersweet draped
    over branches, the last of
    wahoo swinging from tiny
    stems. Even the heads of
    sunflowers boast hidden
    seed and the pods of iris
    and Rose of Sharon rattle
    for the hardier sorts. Wizened
    pumpkins and moldy squash
    open to display fat purses
    for vole and field mouse,
    flicker and jay. All flock in the
    icy fall to enjoy the leavings

      1. Sally Jadlow

        Leftover Poem


        She said to me,
        “I feel like everyone has picked at me
        like a Thanksgiving turkey.

        A piece gone here and another there.
        Been scattered everywhere.
        There’s no more there, there.

        Nothing left of me but bones.
        Headed for a trash heap home.”
        Then gave a little groan.

        My heart went out to this poor soul
        as I handed her hot soup in a bowl.
        Prayed she’d pull her out of her black hole.

  34. uvr

    Bougainvillea pink
    trails from a
    crumbling balcony
    Fresh flowers spill
    over faded shutters
    hiding the sight of paint
    peeling from walls
    enclosing rooms
    long deserted

    Cobwebs clutter
    cold corners
    as dust motes drift
    through stale air
    choking in the absence
    of a fresh wind
    that whistles past
    without knocking
    on a once ornate door

    In its desolate grounds,
    a derelict home
    struggles to hold on
    to slowly eroding dignity
    at the relentless hand of time

    Who knows what dreams
    the weathered stones protect
    from the blistering sun
    What bitter tears mingle
    with the rain that washes away
    the final leftovers of grandeur

  35. Walt Wojtanik


    We write,
    an effort to express and connect.
    And in respect to what we wish to say,
    we find we are never out of words.
    There are always new poems to pen,
    and when we sit to compose our prose,
    God knows, we will find that we use
    the words left over to choose.
    Verbose to a fault and yet this vault
    of our lexicon goes on providing
    the pieces to the puzzle we create.
    We just need to wait for the inspiration
    to grip us. Our words will do the rest!

  36. annell

    Left Overs

    what is left after the event      i come to the studio each day      i am at work

    this is the process      and there is no hurrying it      day after day

    one day becomes another      often they appear the same       hard to tell one from another

    the daily work is the minutia      the detail that becomes      what you see

    the left over     hung on the wall     this is the process

    the daily attention    a meditative act     stay focused

    remember the task      like the postman     it does not matter

    rain or snow      sunshine or shadow      the creation of art

    November 27, 2019

  37. Linda Rhinehart Neas


    Like yesterday’s leftovers,
    they sit in the cold,
    waiting with hope
    held like a candle
    against the darkness
    of greed and benign neglect –
    human’s simply wanting
    a better life,
    free from the horrors –
    war, disease, hate –
    huddling together,
    remnants of cultures
    slowly disappearing

  38. Connie Peters


    “First Vulture Rights,”
    you say as you root
    through the fridge
    opening each lid,
    examining your prize—
    tasty morsels, dull tidbits,
    or something on the verge
    of expiring.
    It’s pretty nice, though,
    to not worry about mold
    or throwing things away.
    And then there are times
    when I bring home
    a take-out container
    from lunch out with a friend
    and you ask if I want it
    and I lie and say no
    and get some kind of
    saintly satisfaction
    for making a small sacrifice
    to feed your pleasure.

  39. bethwk

    What you have is the residual,
    the leftover, the new guiding principle:
    When all is said and done the finest morsel
    may be in the doggie bag
    awaiting your next meal.

    Don’t underestimate the power
    of the second day’s feast,
    the way memory seasons the taste
    with her own sweet-savory-sweet,
    how the sharp edges of solitude
    define the shape of intimacy.


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