I found your takeout food from April

–the sweet and sour chicken 

you thought you left on the hotel desk–in my car. 

But it’s hot now. It’s July now. We aren’t talking now. 

Glittering meat-sweat danced on the plastic lid

of an industrial Tupperware sealed well enough 

to keep the now-rancid meal a secret.

I threw it away immediately or else 

I would’ve smelt it—I wish I did.

I would’ve microwaved it.

I would’ve told you about it.