The Frigidaires of Idaho
retire to empty,
long-grassed lands
sprawled at the foot of
Paradise Ridge.
Warm at last, they hum
entire songs, glad to range
beyond electricity’s single
drone, happy
for the sun, which fills the
leftover spaces
all those casseroles never
could.
They dream of frolicking,
their curlicued dark dorsals
rising and falling like
dolphins.
Doors turned to the sky,
they remember
the crayoned drawings they
held
close to their cold, magnetic
skins,
as they wait for the
children
who climb in to pretend,
believe
the rockets, submarines,
pirate ships
with sterns that cut boldly
through
the sea of rolling greens
and golds.
Who could blame the fridges
for wanting
to preserve such simple
dreams
and hold the children safe,
lullabied
by stories of their
disappearing lights?