The house goes dark, the family’s asleep,
I’m standing in the kitchen at two,
the refrigerator hums its old familiar nothing,
every instinct says this is wrong,
but the light comes on and the cold air hits my face,
and suddenly this kitchen feels like something holy—
leftover ribs from the cookout yesterday,
the mac and cheese my wife said put away.
I’m eating standing up, right from the pan,
not even heating it, just eating like a man,
a man who’s lost the thread of what he’s doing here,
a man who scraped the bottom of the chips and beer,
the cold spaghetti tastes like something close to grace,
I’m eating in the dark with the light across my face,
I promised I’d do better, promised I’d be good,
I’m breaking every promise like I knew I would.
There’s a rotisserie chicken I forgot about,
I’m pulling it apart, pulling every piece out,
the drumstick first and then the thigh and breast,
I’m not even hungry now but I can’t rest,
it’s something else I’m filling, something deeper down,
the day was hard and wore me to the ground,
and food is the one comfort that delivers fast,
the only feeling I can make reliably last.
I find the pie my mother-in-law left behind,
two pieces gone and now I’m pulling at the rind,
the whole remaining pie has gone into my hands,
standing at the counter making smaller plans,
plans that start with morning, plans to do it right—
I’ll make them in the daylight, not at two at night,
right now I’m just a man and a refrigerator light,
and everything I’m eating helps me feel alright.
The dog found me at some point, he approves,
he’s the only witness to my midnight moves,
I slip him a piece of something, seal our pact,
two creatures in the kitchen, that’s a fact,
the fridge door closes and the room goes dark again,
I shuffle back to bed, I’ll sleep till ten,
tomorrow I’ll be better, swear I will,
but tonight the refrigerator had its fill.