The Failed Suicide

You have returned to find so much more

To despair: the flesh whiter,

More helpless, the city stinking

As never before, and those

Whom you had so carefully avoided

Are bringing tea and blankets now,

The bounty of their gardens.

Later, you find a potato

Rolled from the table, rolled

To the corner where it rests

With unnameable food crumbs,

Cobwebs, and dust. Still grubby

From the earth, it squats like a rock

In its armor of thin skin and dirt,

Eyes on all sides watching. Everything about it

Says I won’t budge Everything

Repeats how it wants to remain,

Not to be boiled or mashed or left

To soften, stinking, in the cupboard

Beneath the sink. Everything about it

Says how wrong you were, it says

Look: the world is like this.