pink fridge

 

pink fridge

Last night I left the door ajar

on my new pink

beer fridge

its art deco ‘fridgidaire’ logo

a canny childhood echo

come from China.

 

The compressor’s whine

screamed morning disaster.

 

Gutted, prone, popped asunder

like an opened casket

a toppled can of sparkling water

sapped of effervescence

lay on the top shelf

its lifeblood pooled

at the feet of the

beer cans below

a victim of

thermostatically unhindered

cold blow.

 

I towel sponged

gently scraped

the tiny over-rimed freezer

the over-worked compressor

wailing distressed

 

beautiful beer intact

but warm to the touch

would it ever

be cool again?

 

After breakfast

I entered the fridge room

ear first.

 

No whine. No sound. Dead air.

 

Pried the door open

with the dreadful gentleness

of a hurt locker commando

reached inside the darling little freezer

found it not cool, not cool

but cold cold cold!

 

Quickly closed the door

cold contained

compressor quiet then

slumped in gratitude

chin to fridge top’s

sleek pebbled surface which

a blaze of morning light

refracted by my

glass-blocked basement window

transformed into a glittering mesa

of cool reassuring light.