Leftover

Always the plastic containers, leftovers maturing stacked in gelid wastes where pork slumbers among the peppers, chicken spooning with onions and cabbage. The polar remains of once tropical meals transformed into undocumented containers to be opened far too late. A curried hash so ad hoc that it could be the flotsam of a ravenous hurricane. Zipper bags squelch under groping hands, carefully wrapped comestible debris speaks to the eyes more clearly than any warning sign could. Dinners and snacks survive as half-eaten life-forms buried behind a white doored crypt. Some, a few only may be resurrected, only to be boiled into innominate concoctions by a cook who once loved them way too much.