Hunger isn't why I stand before
my mother’s fridge in my work clothes
and peer inside the vicious white light
like that laboratory I once worked in
(those skinned cats nailed to clipboards!)
but here there's only one lump of flesh--
a chicken leg attached to a meaty thigh.
That's what I find in her fridge most
days I visit--raw meet, an apple turnover
or two, milk and eggs, white bread.
None of which I ever eat.
It's just a habit: walk in the house,
drop my purse on the floor,
and look in the fridge even
though it's been 30 years since I left home
(and have my own home and fridge).
That's what a habit does to a person.
You do the same thing over and over knowing,
maybe even hoping, the outcome
You just keep doing it
because it feels so good, so right,
because your mind can go flat and quiet,
you can forget your cares,
and what's better than that?