The fridge light shines like courtroom truth,
Exposing every midnight move.
I open doors with noble plans,
Then leave with cheese held in my hands.
Vegetables decay in shame,
While sauces multiply unnamed.
The leftovers form ancient states,
Governed by uncertain dates.
One shelf freezes fruit to stone,
Another warms milk on its own.
Family members stand and stare,
As if fresh meals appear in there.
It hums like distant disappointment,
A cold machine of poor appointment.
Still it guards the final slice,
With icy discipline precise.
The refrigerator knows us well,
Our diets, failures, private hells.
A glowing box of truth and frost,
Cataloguing what self-control has lost.
