Midnight Snack

Lousy refrigerator, 

always full of bees.

Stupid bread,

uniformly sliced 

like cross-sections of a hive.

Stupid me for opening the fridge in the first place. 

 

What did I expect, groceries? 

What did I expect, something in return?

 

I wish the refrigerator opened me sometimes. 

It's a two-way street, y'know, 

and somebody's gotta let all the bees out.

There are loaves of them,

swarming the half-empty honey bear.

And there’s a chicken in the freezer

that I overhear talking to the produce.

I think it's in love with the jelly. 

I think it dreams of defrosting.

 

I used to look at the refrigerator and wonder why 

a small light never went on in my throat 

when I opened my mouth. 

Someone should replace the bulb, I would think. 

Someone should replace me, I would think. 

There are still days when my head feels like 

a freezer with a shrink wrapped chicken inside,

legs held together with twist ties, 

bemoaning things like preparation 

and expiration dates.

Reading: Issue 3 - Midnight Snack