Inside the fridge

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 

never changes.

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?