The capers in the cupboard decompose.

Congealing jalepenos germinate.

The gherkin’s great, green girth no longer grows,

But shrinks: each wrinkled pickle must deflate.

Decaying in the dark since ’93,

The furry, flaccid, festering fungi,

And green, obscene gelatinous curry,

Black jam jars buzzing with a fuzz of flies.

Foul fluid in the tins begins to clot,

And bruises bloom beneath sweet, seeping skin,

Soft tissues suppurate and slowly rot:

What once was plump, collapses from within.

Disposing of old cans, I know my fate:

To thus expire upon my use by date.