I Am the Grease Jar

Of glass I started at a shop, But then they filled me up to top. And day by day, I would decrease, But now I serve just for the grease. Sometimes I wish I was refilled, With pickled food or grains a-milled. Despite the options rich and rife, I hold the grease my second life. And when I sit below the sink, I really can’t but help to think, Of flavors that I hold inside, Out from the meat and tossed aside. Instead of going down the drain, On into me the grease does strain. Tucked inside and stored away, Maybe reused another day. It’s wishful thinking, I confess, For no one gets what I possess. These flavors used to cook the food, Will often never be reused. And so one day, it will begin, With me inside a garbage bin. Until that day, I am at peace, To do my job to hold the grease.