Sweet Potato

 

Sweet Potato

 

 

There’s an uncollected solitary sweet potato, going off,

with shrivelled skin and soft

centre, front left corner of the otherwise

empty wickerwork vegetable rack, and its eyes

might sprout if they weren’t shut tight.

 

Still at least you thought you wanted it,

which is more than I can say. There’s grit

in every sip of that tea I didn’t make,

a carbon monoxide alarm for carbon monoxide’s sake

and smoke alarms that would sit awake

 

if you’d ever reached up to replace expired batteries

in sleeping policemen. The factories

burn and churn them out – dying is a thriving industry;

and there’s a something symmetry

that I can’t articulate – proclivity and declivity

 

or a loop the loop, where the ends don’t lock.

They’ll convince you – bastards fronting Watchdog,

that bottle tops kill, radon gas leaks undetected,

lock doors, bar windows, shut curtains, stay protected –

but when your number’s up, you’re collected.