Waking in the middle of the night,
I rise from bed and walk into the kitchen,
Open refrigerator door and peer inside.
There is vague hunger lingering,
From a forgotten dream or unfinished poem,
I cannot know, do not care as I behold the options:
Cold sausage pizza, leftover salad, cold chicken,
Half a quart of milk, a bunch of grapes.
My mother shouts within my head:
“Don’t stand there with the refrigerator door wide open.
All the cold air will flow into the room.”
I close the door and contend with mother’s voice,
Pray that she is now resting at peace….
Then open the door a second time,
Hope some food will beckon and speak to be eaten.
How do I satisfy indistinct longings
When they refuse to clarify or speak?
Do I try some of this and some of that,
Merely to grow fat?
Do I use imagination to taste each bite of feast
That sits upon the table of my life?
Pouring glass of water, I drink from flowing stream,
Satisfy a deeper longing rising in the night.