Yesterday I found William Carlos Williams in my fridge. He was lying (crushed like a crushed car cube) on the top shelf. He was dusted with frost, his blue flesh flecked with ice. His glasses were askew and caked so thick with the effects of the cold they looked like coke bottle bottoms. His tie was tucked underneath the cheese and his left foot was poking through the gap between the slats of the fridge shelf he was perched on. Isn’t it strange, the sort of things you find in the fridge sometimes? Dead poets too.