even the refrigerator is an outlet of poetry.
The picture in black and white shows a handle
pointing north. On the off-white surface
a picture of Edgar Allan Poe is glued on the left,
one of Baudelaire, le maudit, hangs on the right.
In the backroom a wolf types away poetry
in shape of scars and bright stars. From the
open window Moloch wails to the moon.
Onto the street downstairs noisy trucks
pass by. The bakery clock strikes
midnight. As nobody notices, the fridge
cries a muddled black prayer and spouts
gloomy French lines: “je suis la plaie et