Spud

He was a potato
spotted spud
straight out of the bag
raw
and heavy like kitchen baseball
unpeeled
and from the ground
normal
with all-American roots
like spaghetti curled around forks
on mom's homecooked Saturdays
a backyard
Babe Ruth potato
so right-brained
it's left
when I can't comprehend
how he sees colors sometimes
because he comes from crooked treehouses
and thanksgiving football
he comes from
jeans and t-shirts
and fingers rapidly alternating between x and y
to shoot spaceships
he is raw rooted potato
where everyone knows what they're getting
while he's holding the hips
something fresh
oven hot
sour cream and chives
cheese melting
golden sunrise
Paula Deen butter for days
rich with freedom and taste
I was a baked potato
from wheelchair childhoods
to canvas splattered Saturdays
roots created in royal purple
veins with treble and bass
roughing it up in aorta bedrooms
I am the buildingside paintings
of little girl letting go of red heart balloon
I am the loaded baked potato
too rich
next to others like me
because all I need is the norm
the brown paper bag boy
who comes to lunch with PB & J
next to my Bento Box
He's the calculus
to my yoga
the Chuck Norris to my Madonna
Because New York needs Broadway
like it needs Wall Street
like hands need holding
like opposites attracting makes cliches
easy
because we could be french fries
in pigeon bird beaks
we could be baked chips and curly fries
I'll be the barbeque to your pringles
and the gravy to your mash
because you look so good
you could be a salad
handcrafted for wedding receptions
through family recipe
I would gladly call you my sweet potato
despite your lack of orange
because I'm Au Gratin for you
wrapped up in foil fairytales
because I'm steaming under eccentricities
and sometimes, I just need
 a plain
potato.