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Friday, December 19, 2014

In the Arms of a Potato

Yes, I think of you still, of course,
Every now and then, as I ride on,
Stirring my boat with these rusty oars,
Bouncing along bumpy river-bed like roads,
Longing for the soft, paved tarmac of your smile,
Wondering what it is that I feel for you.
You, a potato under the ground, sowed
By fingers I haven't felt, like I have yours,
Growing in someone else's garden,
Cozy in your little space in the ground,
Happy in the shade it offers you.
Although I'd like to dig you out, look at you
Closely, examine you thoroughly,
And to take you with me as I chase the sun,
Trying to understand your beautiful soul,
To lie in the comfort of your arms,
Your hair shading me from the now cruel sun;
I will not to uproot your perfect world
That you have  so carefully organised -
Everything in it's own little place,
The floor sparkling clean, the plates
Rinsed dry and stowed away, the bed sheets
Neatly laid out, pictures carefully pinned
To the board next to your collection of earrings.

No I have no place there, I know;
The room is too small and I am unstable
Like an atom, too difficult to place
Where you would like, too volatile to rest anywhere
(Without staining the walls you must then paint over),
Apart from that one place that is already taken.
Yes, I'm like a fishbowl, I need much attention;
They say there are 'plenty of fish in the sea'
That might make me forget what I feel for you,
To ignore the beauty that flows through you,
The peace it brings to these restless bones;
The calm that you bring to these stormy shores,
Assuring me that there is indeed order in chaos,
And I'd like to pretend you're a rotten potato
Lying around, waiting to be stepped on, but I can't,
Though you're hooked on to someone else's rod.
Maybe we can laugh about this someday;
Maybe someday I can hold your hand
Without these gloves of guilt around them -
Both yours and mine, pulling us apart,
Weighing us down with consequences.

So I drift around like a log on a stagnant lake,
Or a stringless kite in a windless sky, like
A little puppy dog, just waiting for a call -
Waiting for you right here, where you left me,
Happy to make you laugh when you need me;
Ears always cocked for stories you might have;
Sniffing at flowers, barking after butterflies,
Scampering around, digging shadows of truth,
Happy to see the sparkle in your eye that
Lets out that year of sorrow still stored
In those little bags under your eyes -
The sparkle that I saw each time
You looked at me, every time you smiled.
I know I'm not a perfect farmer,
Never have been one really; I've mostly been
A better gathering nomad anyway, so I'll go
Chase cars, run around a bit, aimlessly,
Trying to overcome my imperfections,
Fetching twigs when you throw them at me,
Digging up flower beds when you don't,
And  when all the chasing is done,
I'll lie down, panting, not very far away,
Dreaming of those perfect moments
Once spent in the arms of a potato...