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.