The time thing, blown to bits and resting. I see it in terms of coming and going, my door opening and closing. Me mostly, but that varies since I'm only rarely myself anyway. The momentary reality comes into shape as I cross the threshold and take off the sweater. I head to the fridge and encourage everyone to do so.

Visitors, guests, friends-in-waiting, they wonder if there's anything without alcohol available. I scratch my head but state simply, "Sure." An oversight.

The fridge and I, this dance of nurture is a farce. It keeps certain toxins cool so I can use them later. Even the salad these days must make me mutate. My guts explode perfectly preserved with some shelf date. I'm restocked and sold. I wait.

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