Cleaning out the Augean stables
where a thousand immortal cattle were kept—
their dung deep enough to drown in—
was the fifth of the Twelve Labors of Hercules.
The task was to finish the job in a single day,
which seemed impossible until our hero
re-routed two rivers, the Alpheus & the Peneus,
to wash away the muck.

My fridge isn’t quite that bad.
King Augeas never cleaned his stables,
while I tend to business every year or so.
The few cattle in my fridge are very much mortal,
their excretions limited to occasional juices
leaking out of the plastic wrap. Still,
you’d be surprised at how much things
start to pile up:

half-full cartons of sour cream & yogurt
pushed to the back & out of mind,
growing enough mold to invent penicillin
all over again. Petrified lemons & limes
laid to rest in the crisper with atrophied apples,
desiccated carrots, herbs turned to dust.
The last of the miso, mummified
in its Tupperware tomb.

My intentions were good, I swear,
but this is the road I’ve paved. Part of the problem
is my memories of the fridges of my youth,
stocked in the style of Mother Hubbard,
bless her heart. Hedging against hunger,
I keep my shelves packed with the plenty
we lacked back then. Now, like Hercules,
I put my back in it & get to work.