Dated milk on the fridge shelf,
we linger in random conversation,
the taste of the past feeding
our comfort with personalities
once abrasive now charming.
We stir the soup of difference,
bite into familiar sandwiches
of meats and cheeses
that merge textured tastes
in a feast of remembrance.
Knowing we were moving
toward expiration,
consigned to mortality--
mutability like bread molding
in a tin breadbox.
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