Big American fridge

Big American fridge

I often lie awake and wonder
About the things that I would like
If money were not an issue,
If space were not an object;

How much my life might change,
And how much might stay the same,
If I were suddenly freed from
The common burdens of my age.

Yeah, maybe I would like a fast car
To take a road-trip from here to Alaska;
Or a holiday in Svanetia;
A postcard to say “Guess where I am?”

A new suit cut properly to fit –
Not from TK Maxx;
And a new set of diamond-tipped drill-bits
To penetrate ceramic and glass;

A giant billboard to advertise
My fourth poetry collection;
A lawnmower that runs on sunshine;
And critical appreciation;

And a big American fridge.
Yeah: a big, American, fridge.
The kind of fridge a cat could get lost in:
A big American fridge.

They say you can’t take it with you when you go.
Well, what do they know?
They say money can’t buy you happiness;
But money can buy you marshmallows.

And money can buy you more money.
And money can buy you more time.
And yours can buy all of mine:
Dollars in my dime.

And I’d like a memorial stone
For when I succumb to cirrhosis or gallstones.
And then you can leave me all alone
In a field with a view of another.

And maybe there’ll be one little river
To wash away my bladder and my liver
And maybe even one little bridge
Over my big American fridge.

Appears in:

In the Men’s Room [201?]


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