O! Woeful Cucumber

You sit there, 
unused, 

in my refrigerator, 

looking worse 
every time I see you —

a daily reminder of 
my abandonment of you.  

Google said you are 
fabulously rich in silica, et al., 
but, it turns out, lately, 
I've just . . . 
not been in a 
cucumber-y mood . . .

​

The least I could do 
is make you into

an eye compress 

or a facial mask         

for dermatologic loveliness . . .

​

but . . . still . . . 
there you sit,

judging me (I'm sure), 

as you wither and wrinkle.

 

Mea culpa!  I promise you:

Tomorrow, 

it's Greek salad.  

 

Tomorrow, 

you die.