mashed potatoes instant


slightly northeast of my peas (twenty-
two green eyes, one smashed
by the spoon that fished
them out of the pond
and dropped them on my plate, all staring
back at me in harmony),
stands my mashed potatoes
like a snow-covered
miniature volcano: a
slab of margarine melting in the center,
dripping down the sides,
with the juice from those green eyes
running around the southwest base
like a river of bilious tears
while the yellow lava flows
over a lump jutting out
of the mountain-side, an ugly wart,
deep inside of which
fourteen invisible germs
are quibbling amongst themselves
silently planning their invasion.

© Mark E. Dougherty