–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.
