From bed she could see the fridge.
Fifteen feet away.
Her stomach would snore herself awake.
Hallway tunnel vision would ensue.
She sat up and turned
toward the safe full of leftovers.
Her very own midnight oasis,
and whatever dreams may come
this would be the feeder of those dreams.
She would walk slow and steady
and invoke the creaks that have been
in the hallway floor for years.
This was a nightly walk of faith.
Her paralleled arms
stretched like a zombie.
She, with one eye half open,
was like a foraging bear.
Without the glasses
which always left two pock marks
on the bridge of her nose,
she saw with gurgling, hope.
Hope of aged goulash and
Michigan small curd cottages
nestled by a few pickles.
Hope of Pink Salmon from an open can
buddied up to cold hamburg gravy.
In this midnight catatonic state,
she never pondered if the fridge
light was really on inside that closed-door.
All that mattered was the light
which cascaded down on the
potpourri that was the fridge.
Her one eye was wide open now,
she would hunch in the
glow while her back-lit body
which told all beneath her nightie.
Then the bobble head Hawaiian
would give her a few nods
and dance a little a top the fridge.
It was there the Midnight Mouse
would twitch her nose,
whiskers brushing the
cool air and nibble
her way back to bed.
(For my mother, whose many quirks I do adore.)
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.