March 2009 – Allan Briesmaster + Duncan Armstrong
Fridge, Night and Day
In the depths of a humid night,
what comfort, after feeling your way there,
to see the light shine on cool bottles,
and hear
the faithful motor kick in
for the ripe tropic fruit.
And when the rigid door
between it and the world
snaps shut,
how do we on the outside know
for sure
that the little light has gone out?
Allan Briesmaster
He called everyone buddy.
Usually he was stumbling drunk.
We called him vuddy.
A often dirty fridge,
where I’d wipe spaghetti sauce off the door
and I’d hear a dirty man,
33 living like 16
slur me stories beside it
about how he’d fucked a porn star,
gotten drunk with David Wells at the Duke of York,
told a stoned Electric Jon, That Brown Bastard and I
he’d just partied with Sharon Osbourne,
begging me to set him up with a lesbian friend.
When he moved out I was gifted
with his half of the fridge.
Courageously I removed last year’s
homogenized milk carton.
Thankfully the old McDonald’s bag was empty.
Vuddy was gone.
The new guy came and left.
After finding out he was deported,
I was left to clean the organic cabbage turned to liquid.
Mike Lipsius
The Woman’s View of Fridge Cleaning
Save the sour cream
before some whirling dervish
flashing j-cloth scimitar
Has her way with it.
It’s one day past due
and Jen holds it
one-hand spoon scooping into other.
White purity quivers
and spills out like skillet-settled
bacon grease among cat litter
coffee grounds, sludgy cucumber.
I — a sheepish interloper to her assault
on plastic dairy yurt — intercede.
Jen becomes djinn in one fume.
She curses me once released
from Maytag’s rubbing three times.
But in the yawn of its cool heaven
I spy leftover Stroganoff.
Rigatoni waves cry for help.
My eyes match the djinn’s
and I seal the door faster than Ali Baba —
treasures saved for how long?
Brian Baker
Itchy Underwear
Ever since I saw The Seven Year Itch
where Marilyn Munroe
kept her undies in the freezer
I’ve wondered
how would her ice cubes taste.
Duncan Armstrong
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