We were talking about how everyone who goes to our college is ridiculously attractive, and my friend said, “But I’m a potato.” So this happened.
I am a Potato
I am a potato
is what I think when I see everyone else walking – no, twirling – around in their sandals and tank-tops and smiles with white picket fence teeth.
Don’t over-analyze the metaphor like I used to over-analyze what makes them tick – no, float. Across the sidewalk pavement making the cracks look vintage,
not like stepping on them would break their mother’s backs
or more likely their own, if they’re not careful.
But not mine because I’m a potato and I don’t have a back. Or a spine.
“What up, spud? they say languidly as they pass into the breezy sunshine.
Because I’m a potato I just sit there and look like a potato.
They’re wild and free and tan and careless and dance laughing through the supermarket.
They flow like water and I flow like nothing because I am a potato.
And while I’ll never learn the secret to their beauty and grace
and the only features of a face
that I have are too many eyes
at least I hang around and
mash to my own beat.