Cats Like Plain Crisps

By | 13 May 2024

She puts on her denim apron,
opens the door of a new small fridge;
a half-bottle of red wobbles on the top.
She unpacks her shopping: slab of cheddar,
butter, olives, salmon wrapped in paper,
places them on the clean glass shelves;
broccolini, green beans, in the vegie tray.
She shuts the door. No magnetic letters fall-
off, no colourful phrases, no teenage chatter.
The fridge is silent-white, its silence slithers
down over the floor like icing off a cake,
like newly fallen snow. Her ginger cat,
aware of simile and metaphor, steps towards
her, making bore holes in the snow.
The cat needs some grunge and guidance,
and in reminiscence of a grimy city bridge,
she graffities the fridge door with black
magic marker:


She rips open a packet
of crisps, pours a small glass of wine.
At 8pm, her lover appears in the arch
of the doorway: long black coat, white hair
shimmering in electric light, like a negative.

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