The Empty Fridge is a Ruin

after miles of travelling down the river
strewn with plastic cups, refuse, groans
that were once inside. How come it doesn’t reek
with every stream of sick from your lips
every crease on your forehead? The muddy body
bends, twists, contorts – heaves
and here lies the end of its use. It is found
reaching for warm space. Fingers limp
from days of unending rain, and what you hear
is the whirring of an engine long-dead
and again, how come you never move away
when even the horizon is broken
into faults from yesterday’s tremors
fetid water and everything you’ve thrown away
that expires even after next week? Hunger
creeps hinges and joints til we forget
the empty fridge is a ruin.

3 May 2012
with Deo

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