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Lancaster, OH | Riper than a comely wench,
Greener than a shrub.
Pulsing so it seems, with life:
My colleague’s turkey club.
I see it every morning, yea,
When I dare open wide
The Mini office Frigidaire
To stuff my lunch inside.
In goes my humble bag of brown
To wait till half past one,
Between a rusting StarKist tin
And krypton Cinnabon.
Carrots that can bend themselves
Like gymnasts from the East,
Speak of diet dreams ignored
In favor of McFeast.
And on the swinging door we find
One Grey Poupon gone blue,
A jar of ranch that bought the farm,
A Yoplait turned YoGlue.
The “stew” my boss made for his wife
(Did someone call it swill?)
“Bring it to the office, hon.
He did. It sits here still.
And do not ask about the milks!
A cast of cartons wait,
To fleck my coffee gray with lumps
Unseen until too late.
Frigidare, O Frigidaire,
So small and yet so potent.
Your presence is proclaimed to all
The minute you are opent.
Lenore Skenazy, from her book Has the World Gone Skenazy
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Ode To The Office Fridge
