I set up my typewriter
inside my refrigerator.
Door wide open
Old wooden chair sitting
in front.
I like to pound away inside
the fridge.
I see nothing but beer cans
unopened,
So I open one taking a swill.
I also see bread that I bought
three months ago and
eggs that were never used.
Sometimes little frozen abortions
peek their heads through.
One jar of mayonnaise stands
alone.
Next to my hand
wanting to be used.

The smell that comes out
is that of a cold old age home
or old peoples breath,
Not of tough balls but of
decaying smiles.
I create demons inside my fridge
Orphans fall from the old racks
They scream and clench their
bellies. I assume they are starving
for art and for chili.
I have to keep punching away
and keep the urge to eat at
bay,
It’s all I have,
but I always like to remember
just how tough I can get
It has nothing to do with
fists and flesh,
It’s more like fists and brain,
A test of will.

There have been times
when the fridge has wanted
me to give in.
Not to type not to feel,
It wants me to be like everyone.
Highly sophisticated,
Well educated,
Tucked in shirt with
Khakis,
brand new hair cut
fresh scented cologne
A fancy badge with my
name and picture on it
New house with a fenced in
yard. Perfect blonde wife
Little league coach at night
Book clubs
Theatre and karate class
Meditating on reality
And twisting a moustache
on how much money I have.
I just type four more words
Slam the fridge
and drink the rest she had.

- frank reardon

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