A Bag of Suet

 

A Bag of Suet

 

Comes in placed; boxed red, yellow, blue,

moved from one shelf to another, sits still,

a bag of suet, and still sits, gathering dust,

knowing all autumns fall coloured in rust

and here’s her fingerprint patterns unique,

imprinted, powdered; the outlook’s bleak.

You see, all suet's solid, suet's expanding,

becoming something nasty in the kitchen.

You clocked it first in print, decades ago,

it was inside at large or maybe helps out,

not at the boulangerie, not at the piscine

swimming - that was never her scene,

an excess of water mixes sticky messes,

falls in globs upon her patterned dresses

depicting leaves in brown, dun, skeleton,

once they've carelessly lain in shagpiles

decaying in wintery heaps for far too long.

After all, a bag of suet only is a sack of fat,

mixed with flour, bubbles on top of stews

sweats gelignite, all out to get me and you,

blind of reason, scraps that fall like snow,

get stuffed on shelves and obesity grows,

maybe one could be enough to keep afloat

or else tie that sack to your neck with rope.