empty shelves

you survey
the contents
of your refrigerator.
it's a lean
sparse place
at the moment
with a cold
bright light
on the racks
that need cleaning.
who spills
are these, i
don't know, there
hasn't been
anyone around
to make this mess
but me. and i ponder
the idea of
filling it up
with stage
props, a plastic
head of lettuce
that will never
brown, an empty
carton of milk. a
gleaming green
stalk of celery,
some eggs that
aren't eggs at all.
perhaps a pot
roast, the kind
they use to stage
homes for
selling. and the
more i think about
it, i could fill
my life with
such things, new
friends that are
quiet and content
in their blissful
silence and yet
beautiful
and sublime,
hanging out
in the livingroom
with so much to
say, so much on
their manequin
minds, and yet
polite enough
to be mum when
i'm about and
rummaging for
something to eat.