In the ice chest, Meredith is finally alone with her thoughts.
The peas caress her cheek like a compress,
the fur of frost around the seal, soft as a lion's mane.
Better than anyone, she understands the vicissitudes of transport;
the way home fades like the Gainsborough Lady,
the way years roar as they pass.
And if her lips turn purple? Who's to say
whether it's the fault of the cold she finds around her,
or the Fab lolly trembling in her grasp?