Scraps of metal and food mixed into each other (like a thanksgiving dinner and the table setting all thrown into a slurry). Glint of the fork dulled at the edges by bits of spinach and sweet potato, like a rotten Christmas color study.
Or like that show involving the rapture, leftover as alone, isolation within the group.
The leftover turkey sat in the fridge, telling her that it was going to waste. She ignored it and pulled out a yogurt. She hated turkey. She hated the way it smelled. She hated cooking it. She was glad someone had eaten some but, honestly, what was even the point of it all? The side dishes were the star of Thanksgiving, in her opinion.
When we eat dinner, we usually have leftovers. No mashed-potatoes though. Me and Ann LOVE them. The leftovers are usually good but sometimes not so much.
You’ve wandered thus far
To see the remnants they had left
Arisen from their paths
The others have built their own world
They look to you
Strangely still
They welcome you
To their world
But what is this
Nagging, pulling
Feeling
What is left?
I found it insulting when she poured the leftovers in a dish and placed it in front of me, as if I was some kind of animal she was having pity for. My eye twitched when I slowly glanced at her face and saw her smirking, like the evil wretch she was.
like i wasnt shit
start to think about tha past and how we kissed
and how that leftover kiss is coming up now
wish i never missed how we got dowkn
but damn it i do
feeling washed to the shore need a smoke
or a closer look through scope of how quickly we choked
wtf happened
wish i could understand but i cant
no we just woman and man
She sat in the corner of the kitchen holding a plate of salami slices in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The screen was cracked, covered by a crooked screen protector that had lost its transparency a thousand texts ago. A thousand wasted texts ago.
We still had leftover turkey from Thanksgiving, so we got out the bread and starting slathering the slices with mustard and mayo. As I reached for the cheese, however, I heard a deep, almost slobbery breathing beside me. I looked down, and lo and behold, there was Jowls the bulldog, trying to jump up to the counter where the turkey waited to be sliced.
It’s quiet except for the sound of crumbs hitting the hardwood, like little drops of frozen rain. One meal means a few nights this week with dinner, the amount stuffed away in mismatched containers shrinking with the evenings. The longer it sits, the more savory it becomes. Right until the moment it spoils. I’m not even sure how old it is, or every ingredient, or how long it was meant to last. But it gets softer and sweeter through the days and the nights, sodden, until the sound of a fork scraping against an empty plate lets me know that the last bits of flavor
Are making their way between my toes, beneath the couch, a memory for a vacuum cleaner…
And so I never clean, fearing the cyclone will take us both.
music that we listened to over the past 50 years of our lives still echos of the walls of buildings downtown, around the walls of the dance club, Stevie Wonder who embraced room-sized synthesizers, and even those funny old tunes like “The Varsity Drag,” that were oldies when we were babies, and even Scott Joplin now helping me concentrate by blocking out
Don’t worry Baby, you can have all these leftover metaphors, all the good ones have already been recycled anyway. Besides, you know as well as I do that no one else’s voice will have the power to bring you to tears with them, the way I could, anyway.
By the way, I hope you know we were never anything more than leftovers to begin with.
I was so fulll after thanksgiving, sadly I had to eat leftovers the day after. Turkey, macaroni, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and other things were still left over.
It’s been a month, and as time progresses I’m feeling more and more like I’m scrounging for the leftovers of your feelings.
It is what is left behind when everyone is satisfied. It might be looked at a couple of times but is always pushed to the side.
Scraps of metal and food mixed into each other (like a thanksgiving dinner and the table setting all thrown into a slurry). Glint of the fork dulled at the edges by bits of spinach and sweet potato, like a rotten Christmas color study.
Or like that show involving the rapture, leftover as alone, isolation within the group.
The leftover turkey sat in the fridge, telling her that it was going to waste. She ignored it and pulled out a yogurt. She hated turkey. She hated the way it smelled. She hated cooking it. She was glad someone had eaten some but, honestly, what was even the point of it all? The side dishes were the star of Thanksgiving, in her opinion.
When we eat dinner, we usually have leftovers. No mashed-potatoes though. Me and Ann LOVE them. The leftovers are usually good but sometimes not so much.
You’ve wandered thus far
To see the remnants they had left
Arisen from their paths
The others have built their own world
They look to you
Strangely still
They welcome you
To their world
But what is this
Nagging, pulling
Feeling
What is left?
I found it insulting when she poured the leftovers in a dish and placed it in front of me, as if I was some kind of animal she was having pity for. My eye twitched when I slowly glanced at her face and saw her smirking, like the evil wretch she was.
like i wasnt shit
start to think about tha past and how we kissed
and how that leftover kiss is coming up now
wish i never missed how we got dowkn
but damn it i do
feeling washed to the shore need a smoke
or a closer look through scope of how quickly we choked
wtf happened
wish i could understand but i cant
no we just woman and man
She sat in the corner of the kitchen holding a plate of salami slices in one hand and a cell phone in the other. The screen was cracked, covered by a crooked screen protector that had lost its transparency a thousand texts ago. A thousand wasted texts ago.
We still had leftover turkey from Thanksgiving, so we got out the bread and starting slathering the slices with mustard and mayo. As I reached for the cheese, however, I heard a deep, almost slobbery breathing beside me. I looked down, and lo and behold, there was Jowls the bulldog, trying to jump up to the counter where the turkey waited to be sliced.
It’s quiet except for the sound of crumbs hitting the hardwood, like little drops of frozen rain. One meal means a few nights this week with dinner, the amount stuffed away in mismatched containers shrinking with the evenings. The longer it sits, the more savory it becomes. Right until the moment it spoils. I’m not even sure how old it is, or every ingredient, or how long it was meant to last. But it gets softer and sweeter through the days and the nights, sodden, until the sound of a fork scraping against an empty plate lets me know that the last bits of flavor
Are making their way between my toes, beneath the couch, a memory for a vacuum cleaner…
And so I never clean, fearing the cyclone will take us both.
leftover bits of warmth
crackle and fade on my skin
ominous clouds above
reflect the state I am in
imminent storm rattles the sky
my occulace gleams
whether I weather this devil
is yet to be seen
Man, you know there ain’t no such thing as leftover crack.
music that we listened to over the past 50 years of our lives still echos of the walls of buildings downtown, around the walls of the dance club, Stevie Wonder who embraced room-sized synthesizers, and even those funny old tunes like “The Varsity Drag,” that were oldies when we were babies, and even Scott Joplin now helping me concentrate by blocking out
Don’t worry Baby, you can have all these leftover metaphors, all the good ones have already been recycled anyway. Besides, you know as well as I do that no one else’s voice will have the power to bring you to tears with them, the way I could, anyway.
By the way, I hope you know we were never anything more than leftovers to begin with.
I was so fulll after thanksgiving, sadly I had to eat leftovers the day after. Turkey, macaroni, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and other things were still left over.