Comet
Clay
Prince
Flea
Word
Potato
His head was a comet
All fire and shine, but his feet were clay.
I thought he was a prince
But he wasn't even a frog; more like a flea,
Or even, my word,
A potato
Bug. When we moved into our house, the potato
Bugs came back for years. My Dad drove a black Comet
Station wagon, and the word
"Home" was etched in clay
Over the front door. My dog wore a flea
Collar and his name wasn't Prince.
Later, I'd listen to Prince
And drink potato
Vodka. I'd shop at flea
Markets and hope a comet
Would crash into the earth, turning us all to clay.
There's a word
For that kind of hope, and it's not a happy word.
For my prince
Of clay
I'd make potato
Latkes while we waited for the comet
And watched a flea
Circus. At the flea
Market I found an old word
Game and an old can of Comet
Cleanser. My mom used that. I was living on Prince
Street at the time, surviving on potato
Gnocchi and working with clay.
I'd sell my clay
Sculptures at the flea
Market on Sping Street. I'd leave a potato
Outside the door for my roommate as an unspoken word
That the prince
And I were spending the nigh burning like a conet.
In the end, we're all just clay. No word
Can change a flea into a prince
And you're far more likely to see a potato than a comet.
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