My Fridge

My fridge is the best fired thing, it goes and goes, it can find a way to emerge from any rubble, from a voice within your head, from a collective sigh. O my fridge plays the harp on all records, only making them better. One day soon my fridge will be a theater, a small child, a winning lottery ticket, a lottery winner, a lovable stone. My dark fridge hands me crickets when I can’t find my garlic powder, it’s a dentist and an Aquaman. My dear fridge has all the friends I wish I had. My desperate fridge has been to the Whitehouse, discussed fiscal policies with the president, recommended a path to a fruitful life for all peoples of earth. My determined fridge has been to the top of Everest, has collided with a radio wave beamed to this planet by an extra-terrestrial civilization that no longer exists, as it sent the signal 80,000 years ago. My dank fridge waits in the jungle, ready to snipe the narco-traffickers with a silenced .50 caliber U.S. Marine issue sniper rifle. My sad fridge wonders why war is always the answer. My sudden fridge hits me where it hurts, in the knee, on my orbital bone, in the solar plexus. My switching fridge has the nerve to chase other people’s dreams, accomplishing wondrous projects and getting full credit. My deep fridge knows that the future of reality is the cold void. My compartmentalizing fridge doesn’t fear sadness. My death fridge puts in a good word for me in its imaginary heaven. My broken fridge fixes itself, stands on the summit of a growing mountain, marvels at shale and the seismic roots of our tectonic past. My master fridge painted the caves at Lascaux, Chauvet, and built Chichen Itza in its infernal, interminable youth. My bleary fridge takes me to a bar, gets me high on ice trays and crisper drawers, and walks me home in the rain.