The fridge is ever in conversation,
As it gurgles whistles and hums.
Perhaps with pleasure and indignation,
With what we fill it for our tums.

I'm sure I've sensed a shelf-shrugging sigh,
If ever slow to close its door.
And I believe I've heard for help a cry,
When too full and space no more.

Its day-night cycle is a confused mix,
Determined by its daily use.
As between light and darkness quickly flicks,
For a mere glass of orange juice.

And it can't be nice when a use by date,
Is now clearly long since past.
And its displeasure we don't appreciate,
When with neglected food amassed.

But there are compensations at year's events,
When it feels at its very best.
When its capabilities it full presents,
Its storage skills put to the test.

And the rest of the year it chills along,
To satisfy our mealtime needs.
Preserving all for the few or throng,
As duly friends and family feeds.

So spare a thought for this cupboard cold,
And the sterling job it does.
To hold at bay the mush and mold,
Keep food and drink at its best for us.