The yogurt
on the bottom shelf
of my overstocked refrigerator
seems to no longer be yogurt
but rather
some other thing entirely.
Something sentient.
Something inedible.

The yogurt
once unearthed
from beneath last month’s pizza
and last summer’s carrots
and last year’s pickle assortment
had burst out of its container
and seeped up into the previously-mentioned foodstuffs
which, in retrospect,
perhaps should no longer be considered “foodstuffs”
but rather
“invading mutants.”

I am not frightened by this yogurt
which may be smarter than I
– it’s certainly better cultured –
but I am wary of it
and have given it and its allies
free rein in the kitchen
and adjoining hallway.
I may soon have to move
admitting defeat to the liberating yeast.

Perhaps I should clean
my refrigerator more often
or hire a chef.

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