Remember Dagwood making those midnight trips to the fridge, piling his „Dagwood sandwich“ high with most things edible that came into his vision? Or slumber parties where you tried to do the same and everyone ended up ill, to you mother’s great chagrin? We crave the memories almost as much as the tastes, and perhaps this is what continues to drive us out into the night from our warm beds—exploring the hidden depths of our refrigerators for something special to savor.
I wear darkness like a second skin.
It is the cloak that hides my midnight sin
as I make my way, barefooted, through my house.
Silent, lest I wake my dogs or spouse.
This way I know most well and so I bridge
in seconds that long gap between my bed and fridge.
Pull open that snug door and hear the plop
first of the rubber gasket…
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