Why am I standing here, eyes squinting,
my shoulder holding the refrigerator door open,
some obnoxious alarm protesting the open door
with no way to squelch it but
shut it, and never come to know?
Know what it was I just wanted.
Was it something sweet or savory or
tart or succulent, something for someone else?
Something I should know but can’t remember.
Do I return without it, confused, unsatisfied?
Maybe I should shout the question across
the house, crystallize the uncertainty this moment
has wrought into proof that I’ve crossed
over into the miasma of the aged,
my forehead folded into a question mark?
(May 2026)
Rob S. Friedman 