One Potato. Two

The pink sugar paper tears easily.
The tea bags seep into its cells.
Wiping out the words.
The sweet plan.
April disintegrating into May.
I remember when the top of each letter started with a delightful young lady.
Now the syllables are troubled and bruised.
I lie in bed picking up radio waves.
Wondering how time could have gone so wrong.
How it soaked right through me.
A stain.
I remember what it feels like.
To wait for the plane.
To jump from the platform.
I want it so badly that noise soaks through me.
A stain.
You can’t make the letters change or the paper disappear. Not really.
I spin amidst the dotted lines.
The cash register the beat of my heart.
One potato. Fifty beats.
Two potato. Gone.
The sweat collects on my neck.
No tissue to damp it down.
Two worlds orbit my place in the queue.
I try to show them but no one rings up the total.

If I cut off a single lock of hair I won’t be able to stop.
Pink sugar paper and hair collide.
Take it out on Tuesday.
Tear off the yellow page.
Form the words again.