From bed she could see the fridge.

Fifteen feet away.

Her stomach would snore herself awake.

Hallway tunnel vision would ensue.

She sat up and turned

toward the safe full of leftovers.

Her very own midnight oasis,

and whatever dreams may come

this would be the feeder of those dreams.

She would walk slow and steady

and invoke the creaks that have been

in the hallway floor for years.

This was a nightly walk of faith.

Her paralleled arms

stretched like a zombie.

She, with one eye half open,

was like a foraging bear.

Without the glasses

which always left two pock marks

on the bridge of her nose,

she saw with gurgling, hope.

Hope of aged goulash and

Michigan small curd cottages

nestled by a few pickles.

Hope of Pink Salmon from an open can

buddied up to cold hamburg gravy.

In this midnight catatonic state,

she never pondered if the fridge

light was really on inside that closed-door.

All that mattered was the light

which cascaded down on the

potpourri that was the fridge.

Her one eye was wide open now,

she would hunch in the

glow while her back-lit body

which told all beneath her nightie.

Then the bobble head Hawaiian

would give her a few nods

and dance a little a top the fridge.

It was there the Midnight Mouse

would twitch her nose,

whiskers brushing the

cool air and nibble

her way back to bed.

(For my mother, whose many quirks I do adore.)

© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.