I filed the fridge this evening–

sauce shelf now tallest to short,

a library of labels.

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In a Ziplock, half a lemon shrugs,

smiling to show its seeds,

and in the bottom corner,

silver cans crawl in shadows.

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I assemble a monument,

turn tubs into towers:

Hummus then pesto

with salsa as the steeple.

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I imagine it’s a dollhouse­–

the onions spill secrets

in basement drawers,

minced garlic guards

the entryway.

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I’ve put it into place now,

evicted the expired.

Purring as I shut the door,

it burbles a brief prayer

into pitch darkness.

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