George T. Mormann

A hunk of cheese
is in the fridge.
Mozzarella
or provolone,
just white cheddar,
or something fresh
and unknown to
me, some cheese like
Greek Kasseri.
The cheese is white,
angelic, the light of
the fridge casts a
halo in the
wrinkles of its
zip-loc baggie.
This cheese smells ripe
and bears the treads
of another’s
butter knife.
It’s been eaten
before, and was
to eat again.
How good could it
have been? It has
been preserved well,
possibly for
me, and there’s no
expiration
date, which worries
my gut less than
my head, so I
put it back in
the fridge, instead
thinking of how
good it could’ve
been.

—–

I’ll be appearing in the guest column of The Herald News on Sunday the 26th. If possible I’ll add a link to the piece I’d written. Since it’s been a few moons since my last post on this barren blogscape of mine, I thought I’d throw this poem I’d jotted down a couple of months back, about a chunk of cheese I had found in my refrigerator. I think it was mozzarella.