In the summer silence,
far from town,
in a village settled firmly by a slope,
where crocked streets are uneven,
mules clanking hooves
and cartwheels creak are a memory,
I listen to the kitchen’s fridge song.

Naturally it’s about true love
and that she’ll never leave me
and since it’s a mechanical voice
I had to make up the words
that are a mixture of western ballads,
the lonely cowboy on his horse riding into the sunset.

When I open its door and drink milk straight from the carton
its voice gets shrill
tells me to use a glass,
complains that its white surface
is full of my finger marks;
slam the door shut,
look out of the window
empty street.

Turn back to the fridge
open its door drink milk,
as a sullen protest,
the way I want to,
clean its surface
though till it looks like a snow princess’ bosom,
then I make up
new words for a beautiful song.