I’m sorry I had neglected you.
Since we last were in contact
you’ve grown considerably.
I know this is you reaching out.
I should have known when I gave
you your place — among cans and
boxes of dried pasta — that your shelf
life would be outlived by my forgetting.
Spindly translucent fingers point
every which way, pressing
against clear plastic in a dark
Purple growths dot you,
almost like flowers sprouting
up through the early spring
mix of mud and grass.
But you know no spring. You stay,
shrouded in shadow surrounded
by dust and loose strands of
angel hair gone rogue.
A gaggle of your carbon copies,
squashed and hidden from sight,
gone from my mind for weeks until
your dim lumps catch my eye.
I apologize to your starchy, bulbous
form as I relocate you and your
comrades into the refrigerator.