Empty Space

The fridge door groans, a hollow sound.

One sad onion, staring up.

Expired olives, black and round.

What am I supposed to cook up?

My will is gone. There is no track

to follow. Just the greasy stain

on the door, where the list used to hack

at my intentions, bring the rain

of needed things. What did I plan?

A sandwich? Life? A single meal?

The blankness mocks me, man.

This void, this emptiness I feel.

The outline fades. The shelves are bare.

Just stale air.