meditations on mold

I.

I bought a sliced bread from the store.
Two days later, I went to make toast and found
the bottom of the loaf covered in mold. Small light
green and white circles clinging to the crust.

I threw the whole thing away and ate
my deli turkey slices rolled up around a pickle spear.
Guess I could have got a refund but I didn't even have
the time to go back to the store.

II.

There was a time I made banana bread and ate it
over several days. I kept it on the counter.
I had a piece and it tasted more like lemon bread, sour.
I kept eating, but honestly, I would never
put lemon in banana bread. Chocolate chips are the better choice.

When I flipped over the slice, I saw the entirety of the bottom
was covered in soft white and green mold.
Sometimes what looks like mold is flour:
those two things can be confused easily.

III:

I'm allergic to dogs, ragweed, grass, mold. It's possible that other people
have always known there's something wrong with me. Doesn't everyone
love The Muppets but me? And sour candy, never was a fan.
Of my few childhood memories, there's one that sticks out:

I can't remember which school it was, or what year,
but there was a large circular off-white table, near the lunch room,
before school, multiple kids talking. I tell a joke or
make some comment and no one responds, so, I say it again,

enthusiastically, whatever throwaway comment I made.
And while the memory is soft and pliable, the only thing
I remember is someone saying "We heard you.
You always do that. You repeat yourself like no one heard."

VI:

You run your hands across the edge of the table.
Look close: a chip showing what's underneath the laminate.
The petri dishes, made of yellow tarnished plastic,
each one another scene, like parallel worlds.
Hundreds of circles, clustered together on the flat surface.

Luckily the rest of them knew to have their lids on.