She walks into the kitchen
wearing only green wool socks,
starch white underwear, matching bra,
skin pale as milk over ivory.
Her mauve nail polish still shines after her
evening out (alone),
Red hair on her neck, damp
from the shower.

The fridge hums.
She opens the door,
casting a bright spotlight
into the room.
She stands for a moment,
posture relaxed, stomach protruding,
lets air from the appliance
cool her warm skin, goosebumps
decorate her arms, legs.
Dingy white phone on the bright
yellow wall, silent.

She sees possibility
in the fridge, which smells
faintly of Arm-and-Hammer.
Ketchup or strawberries,
o.j. or milk.
It’s all there
grapes, soft but still sweet,
spicy tabasco, tequila and lime.

Any hour she pleases
she can make coffee,
mix her pepsi with milk,
cook eggs, scrambled or sunny-side up,
yolk bright yellow against the coming day.