Riper than a comely wench, Greener than a shrub. Pulsing, so it seems, with life: My colleague’s turkey club. I see it every morning, yea, When I dare open wide The mini office Frigidaire To stuff my lunch inside.
In goes my humble bag of brown
To wait till half past 1,
Between a rusting StarKist tin
And krypton Cinnabon.
Just one short shelf above it sits
A dip that turned to green
Sometime back when normal guys
Still envied Charlie Sheen.
Carrots that can bend themselves
Like gymnasts from the East
Speak of diet dreams ignored
In favor of McFeast.
And on the swinging door we find
One Grey Poupon gone blue,
A jar of ranch that bought the farm,
A Yoplait turned Yoglue.
The “stew” my boss made for his wife
(Did someone call it swill?)
“Bring it for the office, hon.”
He did. It sits here still.
“Gr-r-r-r-!” he growls while shoving in
A side of rice and peas,
Unaware its way is blocked
By his own fuzzy cheese.
And do not ask about the milks!
A cast of cartons wait,
To fleck my coffee gray with lumps
Unseen until too late.
Frigidaire, O Frigidaire,
So small and yet so potent.
Your presence is proclaimed to all
The minute you are opent.
Repository of our food
And of what makes us tick,
We love you, need you, wish you well,
But shut your door, please.
Lenore Skenazy is the author of “Free-Range Kids: How to Raise Safe, Self-Reliant Children (Without Going Nuts with Worry)” and “Who’s the Blonde That Married What’s-His-Name? The Ultimate Tip-of-the-Tongue Test of Everything You Know You Know — But Can’t Remember Right Now.” ©2011 Creators