2
The ice is an ungrateful guest,
like the kind that brings fast food over and does not
give you any fries then leaves the bag
and foil hamburger wrappers on your coffee table,
that admittedly was messy before,
but without
the greasiness and a soggy cardboard cup.
A guest that, as Benjamin Franklin said,
stinks like fish in a matter of days.
As does anything left undone,
like dishes when they, one spring afternoon, become fertile,
coy and rosy cheeked,
curvy and plump
sausage bits stuck to a plate soon bloom mold
a whole family of slippery spore monsters
clog up the sink’s drain like so many important arteries,