Musing Over The Potatoes

the fable will be finished soon
she said snipping off its cherry coloured threads
the whir of the music in her head

the moonlit shreds.
will it fit them I will always wonder afterwards
she smiled.

when they turn the turnstile
and get on the trains to work
no longer the kings and the queens

of the newspaper folded crowns?
now they want poetry that is like old potatoes
that rattles down the bins and is

collected like taxes into artful books.
and whether the potatoes are russet or Idaho
or Yukon Gold, well, what can I say?

they are still potatoes, aren't they?
while I match sound to sighs and
colours to bright replies

and chimes to the light of day;
they just say, mashed, with chives
or drowned in curdled cream

in the plastic trayed cafeteria
where they have bills to pay
since honorariums don't go that far these days
while I'm at the city gate

and late for everything:

showers of golden coins
raining down and down on me.

mary angela douglas 21 january 2016