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Refrigerator

Compartmentalizing is its super-

power. Everything inside has its cool,

dry place, from the egg tray to the crisper,

like an office building, or a school,

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albeit at slightly varying temperatures,

from chill to chilly—dryly humorous

in their juxtapositions, their postures,

their unspoken hierarchies, from serious

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to silly. Then, every so often,

the door swings open and a light comes on

and reveals the truth: some things are going rotten,

some are running low, and some are gone.

Washing Machine

Weighs your duds with joggles, with brief whirls.

Satisfied, locks the glass door with a click

that says leave. Poured water hisses, steam curls

to fog the window. Such work’s on the clock.

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Later you hear all kinds of racket from

the basement: gush of water from a hose,

rhythmic churn, the unbalanced pounding of a drum.

Someone’s beating the shit out of your clothes.

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