NO FREEDOM written on a curbside mini fridge

in the city, we shed apartments like exoskeletons.
our dumpsters day after a move from the building
are always full of shreds of couches & piled broken lamps.
life spits out our shoes. we run away inside 
a conch shell. a birdhouse. it rains & we go
to try to salvage & reuse what we can. wires 
like forgotten snakes. upholstery soaked to the bone.
mini fridges are common. this one looks as if it were
smacked with a baseball bat. was it anger or hunger?
is there a difference? i open the little mouth to check
the teeth. if i crawled inside the mini fridge & waited for
garbage people to take me, do you think they would
deliver me to a secret holy land? the opposite
of a landfill. instead, a place of removal. 
the "no freedom" spray painted on the machine's side
tells me someone has tried already & failed. 
i can see them pressing their form into the fridge's
cramped mold. every time i move, i spend a week
or so basking in a fantasy that this place
will be better. less bugs. more ceiling. less neighbors'
late-night homilies. more sugar for walls. rain
melting them away. i will regret not taking
the mini fridge. regret not filling it with my own eyes.
they grow back each time i pluck them. grape vine.
ghost. grain. instead, the next morning
garbage truck comes to ask, "what do you want
to forget?" the building answers with the debris 
no one else has taken. the building is a lesson
in how close we come to living one another's lives.
i could have filled it with pigeon wings. i could have
stayed inside forever. felt the cool breath.
the shutter. the wave. the fists we use for doorknobs. 
let go & all the keys fall. they sound like bells.