The grease trap is a heavy, black lung
breathing the scent of a thousand fried mistakes.
It holds the sludge of old lard
and the glitter of a dropped wedding ring.
A colony of pale worms
dances in the iridescent film,
moving with the grace of a dying ballet
under a flickering fluorescent tube.
I stare into the oil
and see my own face,
blurred and yellow,
like a photograph left in the rain.