We threw our potatoes

out in Carbondale, didn't

taste like the leg buildings

we thought we had ordered.

Bury my disorder in a flatbed

truck and mail my potatohead

clumps from Portland to Malaga

with some Mediterranean

padded pilot gear,

we steer ourselves away

from Kalamazoo cider smears,

far beyond Mauston's

farmer's market,

and we take to endless dunes,

a potato refuge target we hope,

we assume. Novato, Novato,

isn't this all melting?

Dear Wheeling,

what do we call French fries

in liquid form? Would you still eat

us on any part

of our planet's map?

Then patiently wait outside

for the potatohead storm.