We don’t eat leftovers, she says
and I wait

until she’s in the bathroom, then I peek
into her fridge. Shiny shelves, entire

unsliced cucumbers, whole blocks
of cheese. My own fridge has a sauce

puddle I can’t quite reach, half
a sandwich less one bite

wrapped in foil, Pyrex containers of
salmon and cream pasta from last

night and the taco beans we’ve
been chipping away at for ages.

An army of condiments, hot sauces,
curry pastes red, yellow, and green.

Where does the food go that you don’t
finish? I want to ask, but duh, there’s

a garbage bin and a garburator in the sink.
Have you heard of dumpster

diving? I’ve never done it, but apparently
if you know the right time and the right

places, you can get sleeves of glazed
donuts, bags of bruised produce.

Some restaurants donate
uneaten food, others render

food inedible with chemicals
discouraging the riffraff, a nicer word

for vermin or undesirables, which could
be rodents or people and here’s where I wonder

why we care if someone wants what we
don’t. Even these few lines tucked

under my pillow: couldn’t they be a meal
for some other poem?