As I open the refrigerator door
the fluorescent glare attacks me
the last month curled
and blown away leaving me startled
at the myriad of colors
proliferating on the glass shelf
jostling against each other
like bullies on a playground.
The cheddar is nude and stubbled,
cream coagulated and sour.
Are those fuzzy blue mounds
the peaches I put there only a few weeks ago?
I enter a battlefield
without the will to fight,
my resolve as soft as cheese.
Right now all I want is a poem
perhaps something about
human kindness
or changing leaves
or redbud growing.
But the dark leak
of melting ice
puddles urgently,
and begins to creep across the floor.