The Last Pasta

The fridge door opens and the light comes on.
Shadows fall over the shelves.  Does milk
even come in cartons anymore?  The big ones?
How would you hold it
with no handle?
Pop the cap off of the orange juice.  Fermenting.
Sip.  Not terrible.
Sniff the barbecue sauce.  A fingertip dab
or two.  Make it an even three.  An even four.
The fridge door rests on an ankle.  A butt cheek.
Milk doesn't come in cartons
unless your are twelve.  Maybe nine.
The bread loaf comes out in hand
then returns the same, open end spun plastic
closed easily shrugged dinner bubblegum machine
quarter in and puzzle in an egg game
thumbnail to tile to tile to make a picture
that looks like food.
A blue lid in the crisper draw
by tired toes
handle pulls.
The pasta.  The pasta.  The last pasta
in the house.
A pop of lid's lip,
a very small breath.
There is no Earthly reason,
what songs last pasta sings,
those notes should come
into or from a mouth
when the shelves cup other things.
The light goes out and the fridge door closes.
Shadows fall over the shelves.  Does milk
even come in cartons anymore?