Lazarus, Come Forth - From the Microwave

One summer night my nose beheld
A whiff of which the kitchen smelled,
The stench of something slightly dead—
"Must be the kitchen trash," I said.

And so I tied th' offending bag
That reeked enough to make me gag
And dragged it out the door and slid
It in the can and latched the lid.

But scents came later past my nose
Made but by them that decompose,
From which I only could conclude
A mouse lay in decrepitude.

I searched where'er my sniffer led:
The floors, the drawers, the box of bread.
Alas!  My hunt began to founder—
Until I smelled it by the counter.

I knew that then I'd found its grave:
Right there behind the microwave.
"Aha!" I said with gleaming eye,
"The rat went way back there to die!"

So carefully, I moved it out
And searched the region thereabout,
To find, beside dust-bunny's lair,
That putrid mouse…just wasn't there.

In fact, behind the micro-oven
(Despite conditions somewhat sloven)
The air smelled truly fresh and sweet,
And not the least like fetid feet.

But phew!  The odor's caustic scent
Came out the micro-louvered vent.
I said, "Oh no, it crawled inside;
For months we'll smell its rotting hide!"

"But how did it crawl in…?"  And then
I whiffed that smell just once again.
It's so familiar, yet so…foreign;
I opened up the micro-"door-in"…

And only stood, beholding gawkily—
A dish of old, leftover broccoli,
Forgotten there for days untold:
In state, entombed, decayed, and cold.

                        —O. Nonymous