By Anath Hartmann
Of a refrigerator on a lawn
In the dark,
With its intestines exposed,
Is too much for me
When I walk my dog
Down the paved streets of our quiet green neighborhood
in America the Free.
I think of how fitting and sad it would be
For a comedian to come outside now, under the stars,
And fake food-retrieval
From one of the appliance's ancient
Is this 1942?
I am sure I can see,
If I try hard enough,
All the ghost arms of dead generations reaching for
Nobody makes anymore.
Who kept glass containers of yogurt in the door?
Orange juice on the lowest tier?
If a thing's motor dies,
It's witnessed more than I,
Who am so forgiving and stupid, standing here amazed
By pre-Cold War technology.