Poetry

Spooktown, 24 (298.)

Ahhhhh!
The fear of an empty fridge
stands stark in the kitchen,
and it forces a focus
I haven’t had in a long time.
The fridge isn’t bare, you see,
nor is it a bear,
so why am I so scared?
That’s hunger for ya.
Still, I look a little closer,
and the little crisper drawer
waves an imaginary arm:
“Hey,” it says, “I have the stuff you need.”
It really does.
A box of something leafy and green,
and a solitary tomato lying in wait.
The drawer designated “Lunch Supplies” up above
has a sleeve of leftover bacon;
oh yeah, it’s BLT time.
I pop bread in the toaster,
put the bacon in the microwave (culinary gods,
forgive me),
and ready the veggies.
Mayo, mustard, and the secret ingredient
otherwise known as Cholula
are slathered on piping hot toast.
A bed of spinach (it’s a BST since there’s no lettuce)
and tomato pillows
sit and wait for their new greasy occupants.
I lay the bacon down upon this fine arrangement,
slap a toast blanket on top,
and call it done.
It’s time to treat my stomach.

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