My poem: On the Fridge Door

[stonepicnicking_okapi]

On the Fridge Door by okapi

Everything, I reply automatically, as I wipe the sink, scooping up the

bits of regurgitated dinner the dishwasher refuses to

digest, my worth, my body, my sanity, my ambition, my money, even my name.

I’ve lost everything. But as I take the four steps from the trash bin back to

the sink, I spot Degas’ Little Dancer and Wyeth’s Open Window.

There is Hamlet, of all things. And cross-hatched Holmes and Watson. There is

Consider the Possible Consequences if You are Careless in Your Work!

And a chihuahua in a devil costume asking: Were you expecting

Little Red Riding Dog? There are redwoods. There is a French woman

playing golf. There is a saint whose name and function I can’t

remember (lost items or lost causes). There is Hope on the Street.  

Among the schedules and the calendars and the year after

year (after year) of photos of numbered uniforms, among the potential

playdates and the 911 reminders.  

Oh, I realize, there I am.