Christ . . . what is the difference
between me and my blue Rex fridge
which cost four stipends and
ten overtime shifts?
That it has a washable surface?
That it does not cut its hair?
This night we stare at one another.
I had gone into the kitchen
to get some salted almonds.
My eye caught a glimpse
of a reflection: it was him . . .
silent one in front of the other
I munching almonds,
he producing ice
in his big electric blue head
that makes him think a lot.
I’m almost never home:
he’s always here, and he is beginning
to become insufferable, he’s authoritarian
like my wife likes.
She rubs against him when I’m away
and the motor goes to the max.
this has inspired me to write a poem about an alcoholic's sexual desires for cieling fans. i haven't written it yet.