My Foreign Kitchen

The refrigerator softly hums.
Interior’s almost empty like that of a bum’s.
A third of almost flat Pepsi.
A little milk, some lettuce and no ham for the cheese.
Some mayo…salad dressings…but… nothing to eat
One pack of frozen meats in the freeze,
Pork chops,
And two cans of different Minute Maid frozen drinks,
Hot Pockets, which are lean,
But still, nothing to eat.
The Cabinets.
Half a loaf of bread and tuna for sandwiches.
Cans of tomato sauce, beans, and some Chef Boyardee
A few different spices for some meats
I’m so sick and tired of rice and beans.
Everyday I mean, but it’s cheap.
Groceries.
Oh the need.
Meats, juices, and veggies to steam.
How about eggs?
Bread, treats, and water, cause I’m tired of drinking from an unfiltered sink.
How bout some ice cream for this airy heat?
So many things to eat,
But in this kitchen, nothing to see.
The kids are asleep.
So is she.
I should do the same thing.
Damn Cockroaches.
Maybe there’s crumbs in the toaster.
The whole kitchen is clean and they’re still wherever I see.
Ah man.
The life of strife some are born in,
Wishing I was more important.
Life could be boring.
Come home to a kitchen like mine.
Well, I feel foreign.