Spuds


Is there life
after shelf life?
After shelf death,
is there redemption?

If dinner’s not
your destiny
you grow tusks,
you’re grotesque

You dangle instead
on a wire
in the limelight:
objectified.

Today my subjects
are afraid,
eyebrows whispering
to nervous furrows.

Primetime was years ago
and retirement
isn’t much fun
in the dark.

Will someone yet take pity
on these
earthy
creatures?

I hope so.

I hope I will.

someday.

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