The Eyes on a Potato

Ought we to feel blessed that we don’t instantly

evince each wince of shame, humiliation

and embarrassment that stings us through

the day with giant hot pink bruises?

.

Ought we to be glad that we don’t

morphologically manifest in languorously

thickening somatic lengths and folds of covering

like rubber matting – become the outward form

of all the lolling useless dolorous expressions

of depression which through weeks across

all regions of us slink down slowly, flatly

to embrace the ground, obeying gravity too well?

.

Ought we be relieved our systems do not swell

to force our flesh to heave and sway

and atrophy into soft serpentine reductions

of our limbs and fingers to be swallowed up by

rolls of plasm we are able only with deep pain

to push ahead in increments of inches toward

something somewhere we don’t care if we attain?

.

Or ought we to be sorry? If disharmony were

freely granted agency to show itself in everything

that bodies felt and feel and had and have and were

and are, wouldn’t that bestir it into harmony?

What un-impedimental things to be!

Being ultimately is the outcome of “to be.”

It’s enough to make the eyes on a potato see.

.