my heart is a pommeled thing
it resembles a mashed potato
no gravy no butter no chives
just the pasty starch of our lives
during the famine my heart disappeared
it would never pomme again I feared
the organ had barely pulse nor palp
the burning eyes, the tingling scalp
the brain’s blue quest for oxygen and wonder
loins that long for blood and throbbing thunder
this potato goosed by a french fried brain
won’t entertain chilly salad laced with pain
my heart is a fractured tater too weak to pout
but spuds left in the dark will sprout
