Mrs. Potato Head Spies Mr. Potato Head in the Garden
Those shorts look like a skirt—so wide
around his legs. You could park a car
in the shadow of his butt.
When we courted he was skinny.
Like George Harrison of the Beatles.
You wouldn’t know to look at him now.
All I do is wipe up after him. Crumbs,
spills, grease of bacon & egg.
I’d like to smack him over the head
with a rolling pin. Haven’t made a pie
in years. Wait—did I ever roll out
home-made crust for a pastry? Who am I now,
would anyone want a vegetable
with pushpins & titanium in her back?
Ouch it hurts to live this way.
But I can still talk inside this semblance of head.
& will continue to criticize
until the flesh bond struck between us—
it’s trite to say, go ahead—rots.
At some point the company
comes up with plastic parts.
You already know the lawn’s a disaster.
Dandelions. Weeds. I have to fight
for each green blade of grass
between countries of dandelion, moss, & mud.
I admit he was a provider for sister yam
& brother spud, snot-nosed children
who went off & had their own children.
We have cabinets
stocked with hands, feet, ears.
Two mouths, two pairs of eyes.
Together we are four noses, three hats,
many eyeglasses, a pipe & eight felt pieces
resembling facial hair, of which I have
my fair share. Sugar’s an addiction.
TV’s a major activity.
Is disdain too strong a word?
I’d like to tell him off before carrot-toes purple
—you Sir—get off statins,
go on a proper diet.
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