What stays I place on the counter: bottles of salad dressing, wiped clean; jars of mustards, one of mayonnaise, also cleaned; rolls of film; six-pack of low-fat yogurt; a jar of pickled okra, still unopened.  Yeast packets, juice.  Bottle of chardonnay.  What goes goes into the sink: a blue plastic container, saving Bernaise (from the holiday) so old the surface cracks and fissures; a Ziploc, ripped, with cheese inside, a piece of Brie furred over in mold, a chunk of cheddar, its yellow edge darker and moving inward, like a shadow crossing a building.  Oh Hallelujah, little garbage disposal.  And the rest, it’s good-bye, good-bye, good riddance, into the trash: ancient tubes of anchovy paste, tomato paste, hardened into sculpture, the edges sharp enough to cut you; the butter’s crumpled wrapping; the package of demi-glace.