In which we rearrange the words on the refrigerator, one last time
Most days, the words just cling there, static, benign, and patient; the longer ones, the nouns and verbs and adjectives, in alphabetical columns, the articles and conjunctions grouped in a mess by themselves. They're not hurting anyone as they sit on the frig door. I ignore them the million times a day I grab the milk or the creamer or the eggs. The words might as well be hidden in the metal tin they came in -- most days. But frig poetry is like over-eating: we shouldn't do it, yet we do. If the indulgent snacks we sneak make us lazy, and satiated, and fat, the frig poetry fares even worse, as the same words rearrange themselves again and again in lines mechanical, and contrived, and over-exposed. And yet. Still we do it. Still we do it.
I get home, I got the munchies / Binge on all my Twinkies / Throw up in the tub / Then I go to sleep / And I drank up all my money / Dazed and kinda lonely