by Brian Correia
Lately, the rattle of my fridge has been keeping me awake.
Where I live I have to bring my own fridge
or rent one. You know
the kind with a microwave attached.
I have a tube TV.
I was prepared for a year of warm beer,
for doggie bags with early expiration dates.
“Sell by twenty-four hours after the meal.”
But Aaron, he lent me his fridge.
For two weeks I slept soundly
before it reared its ugly head. Bad vibrations.
Did I put it in the wrong spot?
Did I stick it with the wrong magnet?
I've removed, from its top, everything:
The clock radio, the plastic containers.
The clock radio still goes off.
The cold cuts still are cold.
The fridge rattles.
I put it at the foot of my bed.
In the middle of the night
I give it a kick.
Sometimes that does the job.
