Once so shiny our appliances, sleek workhorses

primed for every task. To sear in a flash or simmer

slow and steady, to wash deeply in a churning fury

or gentle delicates with a tender touch.

Now, like us, their repertoire narrows, certain tasks

no longer automatic, switches gone awry. Silent

efficiency gives way to creaks and rumblings

as they strain to complete their cycles.

Now and then, total breakdown.

The breezy repairmen who come to diagnose and treat

express doubt about their continuing utility. “At best,

it’s a temporary fix, Ma’am. It’s really just a matter of time.”

But it still works, I protest, and catch the faint tinge of pity

(or is it contempt?) that briefly shades the practiced friendliness.

Stopgap repairs negotiated, our vigilance recedes.

Weeks later we’re awakened by a surreal clamor

in the bowels of our refrigerator. Knocks

and bangs alternate with the sound of ice

reverting to liquid; a steady drip, drip, drip

— imminent meltdown.

In our hazy assessment, we choose the action

that offers immediate relief. Straining to reach

in the gap behind, we pull the plug on our stainless-steel

jukebox and slip back into our still warm bed.