Poetry Is Dead

Er… I should clarify. Refrigerator poetry in our house is dead. (As for poetry at large…You can put on your favorite black turtleneck and loudly share own opinions at your next social gathering.)

Anyhoo, since Alexander picks up everything he can get his hands on and puts it in his mouth, I knew it was time for our little magnetic words to go. I’d hate to have to take him to the ER to get his stomach pumped, or whatever they do to treat ingested haiku.

Here were some of the finer works of refrigerator poetry:
The first poem written soon after we moved into the house…


An ode to tight corduroy pants…


And a few others…




And finally, the fridge was stripped of its poetry. In fact, you could say it went back to the basics. Letters.