Potato Pleasure

I empathize with Mrs. Potato Head—

she can’t find anything to go with her body shape.

The floral hat is fine, and the kitten-heel shoes 

a statement piece, but maybe all she wants is

a cleavage-bearing halter or a seductive skirt, something

to heat up her man. Shouldn’t she want to?

Her lips are rouged and her plastic eyes made up, 

even earrings adorn her powder pink ears.

Mr. Potato Head looks soft and old:

he exists with a moustache and shoes, a hat that isn’t trying 

at all. The patriarchy extends to potatoes, she thinks, 

as she swaps out her pearl ears for dangling hoop ears. 

Sometimes he’ll flirt with a new nose, a pair of glasses, 

but she’s unimpressed. She has no desire to fuck him anymore,

his damp-basement musk unappealing. He is growing eyes 

on his back and won’t clip them like she does, 

says they make him look rugged. 

She puts on her glitter-blue eyeshadow eyes 

and gives him a starchy gaze, licks her overdrawn lips. He plops on the couch, 

puts on his paper-reading glasses, and starts to look at the news.