Comfort Food

I'm searching for the Ketchup bottle
on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
The bulb has burned out and last night's chicken
is lolling about in a most immodest way.

the inefficiency of the search is most
likely going to make me angry
as I stoop and stretch my aching back
and crane neck just like the giraffe
behind it's fence at the zoo reaching
for that bit of ice cream from a four year old.

I push the eggs from side to side
and shove the Shiraz that gurggles half empty,
under the tortillas I spy the cheese
that's not really cheese (only in America)

Then I heave a sigh and think
What am I looking for?
Lifting my bent back to be verticle
once again feeling the burst of cool air
on my brow furrowed from frustration

I spy a spot of red
silky and thick sitting
pretty as you please on the top shelf
behind the milk
smiling and winking at me

How they all must laugh
and ridicule my frustrations
when I shut the door
and they sit in the dark
waiting again for light to come on.