Sometimes I'll look in the refrigerator
And decide that the mustard is
Vaguely familiar
And that the jar of Spanish olives is new to me
What's
This gathering? The butter
And salsa, the two kinds of tortillas
And, in
Back, the fat-waisted Mrs. Butterworth
I'll study the plate of cross-legged
Chicken

And close the refrigerator and lean on the kitchen counter

Is this old age? The faucet drips
The linoleum blisters when you walk on
It
The magnets on the refrigerator crawl down
With the gravity of expired
Coupons and doctor bills
Sometimes I'll roll my tongue in my mouth
Is
This thirst or desire? Is this pain
Or my foot going to sleep? I know the
Factory
Inside my stomach has gone quiet
My hair falls as I stand. My
Lungs are bean plants
Of disappearing air. My body sends signals, like
Now:
A healthy fleck is floating across my vision
I watch it cross. It's
Going to attack a virus
On the right side of my body
And, later, travel
Down my throat to take care of knee
Little latch of hurt. I swallow three
Times
I have to help my body parts. Fellas, sour liver
And trusty kidney
I'm full of hope
I open the refrigerator
I've seen this stuff before
What's this?
The blow dart of bran? Chinese ginger?
No, fellas, they're
Carrots. The orange, I hear
Is good for your eyes.