My fridge broke
and it reminded me
of my mind.
Not that I have
a broken mind,
just that
all the rotting
food in there looked
so desperately
sad;
the cheese that
was meant for
something
great
and the
soup
that someone
had spent
so
damn
long
cooking.
Even the
milk, in
its $2.20
carton,
was screaming out
for help.
Suddenly I regretted
spending so much
time on Foucault.
I mean, at
least
Chaucer is a
non-perishable.