The office fridge held a single oyster
in a paper coffee cup labeled KEVIN.
It smelled like low tide in a photocopier,
like somebody had tried to expense loneliness.
Beside it, a yogurt swelled politely,
wearing green fur like a tiny winter coat.
At lunch I ate crackers over the sink
and watched the oyster grin in its gray spit.
Some things stay closed out of dignity,
some because opening them would cost money.