My Buddha is suffering in the ice box.
His pain is melting all the popsicles.
Grape/orange mantra calls for cleanup,
And a new religion without sticks.
I pray to his grey magnetic face,
There beneath the tide of pink and blue.
Now the psychedelic fridge front preys
Upon our constant need for colorful sweets.
My Buddha must suffer to disguise his chill.
He melts. He freezes. And he melts again.