The dverse prompt this evening is to write a poem about something in the fridge, stuck on the fridge, or lurking in the bottom of the fridge. I didn’t think there was much to say about the contents of my fridge, just food that will all be consumed before the shopping on Saturday. That’s the point, I suppose.

There is nothing in the fridge but future meals for two, no slabs of rotting meat someone forgot to cook, no bags or jars of impulse—once tasted quietly forgotten. There is no substitute cheese, no vegan nut burgers, no pasta sauces in jars or soy sauce, no fancy fruit juices, no containers of indefinable pastes, grey or mould green, possibly for skin not stomach. There is nothing that smells because it is past its sell by, nothing that is not part of the programme for this week.

Our programme has shrunk, so…