Volume II, Issue II Summer 2003



The absurdity
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
Cold Cuts!
Is this 1942?
I am sure I can see,
If I try hard enough,
All the ghost arms of dead generations reaching for
Condiments that
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.


Anath Hartmann is an English major at Georgetown University. She lives on a cul de sac with her family and a dog that has a terrible habit of destroying things. She would like to write Salinger-esque novels after college.

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