Afternoon Memory

      Sometimes I'll look in the refrigerator And decide that the mustard is Vaguely familiar And that the jar of Spanish olives is new to me What's This gathering? The butter And salsa, the two kinds of tortillas And, in Back, the fat-waisted Mrs. Butterworth I'll study the plate of cross-legged Chicken And close the refrigerator and lean on the kitchen counter Is this old age? The faucet drips The linoleum blisters when you walk on It The magnets on the refrigerator crawl down With the gravity of expired Coupons and doctor bills Sometimes I'll roll my tongue in my mouth Is This thirst or desire? Is this pain Or my foot going to sleep? I know the Factory Inside my stomach has gone quiet My hair falls as I stand. My Lungs are bean plants Of disappearing air. My body sends signals, like Now: A healthy fleck is floating across my vision I watch it cross. It's Going to attack a virus On the right side of my body And, later, travel Down my throat to take care of knee Little latch of hurt. I swallow three Times I have to help my body parts. Fellas, sour liver And trusty kidney I'm full of hope I open the refrigerator I've seen this stuff before What's this? The blow dart of bran? Chinese ginger? No, fellas, they're Carrots. The orange, I hear Is good for your eyes.