Your Roast Potatoes
Walking to the park, your roast potatoes
emerge, furious.
“Where have you been?”
they ask.
I try to explain that we decided
to have some time apart,
a pretence we both understood
as a less-painful escape,
(‘time apart’ the phrase we
mocked in others’ partings)
but they do not have ears to
hear this, only mouths
that look like the aftermath
of the baby learning to use
a fork for the first time,
mouths that crumble butter
onto the pavement,
and two careless gougings
for eyes,
eyes that remind me of yours.
