Old Fridge

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The man pushes the orange supermarket cart over the train tracks careful not to trip on the river stones along the way. On that side of the valley, the wind blows dust like golden powder, whirling the leaves into a dancing carousel. The snow would make the scene even more congealed, silenced, but it is not there. The sky is limpid, and the oscillating light slows down his movements. The creak is dry, and the weeds grow through the cracks of the pavement, intersecting the cement into a maze of vegetation. Before he lost everything, he dumped his possessions in places like this, the old fridge, the only equipment he finds in this search, reminding him of the one he had in his old kitchen. It is hard to carry it back to the cart, his memories weighting his body. Far away, in the city, someone is enjoying his old apartment, lying in his bed, capturing the warmth. In the clarity of unseen things, trusting, he pushes the cart and continues his journey.

Poem published in The Lake Poetry.