When you stand at the opened
refrigerator door and tell me
there is nothing to eat,
I clamp my mouth closed
over the next line, the one
where I list the contents of
the rapidly warming shelves.
There is no fruit at all, you prompt,
since I seem to have forgotten my line,
certain I won’t be able to resist.
And you’re right.
Blackberries, pineapple,kiwi, grapefruit,
bananas, I list—
All things you can see, too.
You sigh, relieved
to be on familiar ground
the kitchen, your kitchen again.
but no strawberries, you say, no grapes, no oranges.
One more week till you go back to college.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 