In the Machines

The ghosts call me late
most nights, rocking
the cradle of the landline

we never use. I never pick up
but I see their faces vaporize
in my icy breath,

their empty mouths asking
You put away all the leftovers? 
Do you know who we are?

I can see their mouths form it,
feel their curses touch my body
I mumble irritably

and try to solve their hungry
riddle, without magic:
pointing them to the fridge

_