Sometimes I feel like a stuffed mushroom,
however a stuffed mushroom is supposed to feel,
and when I feel like a stuffed mushroom,
life seems stodgy, not quite real.
Last night I lay awake, attended to the wind.
It moaned in my back yard,
threatened trees with hard fist blows,
like it did before the first Ice Age,
unaware of its indifference
to what happens on the human stage,
reduced me to a lettuce leaf curled on a plate,
too exposed, vulnerable to stay in that state.
Sometimes I feel like a squashed lemon,
a fruitless mush of split dry seeds and bitter peel,
and when I feel like a squashed lemon,
I cannot rise up to kneel.
I am on a slide down hill
or in a lift going up to the top of a tower.
It depends how I listen to the news.
I submerge or put on my shades, continue my cruise.
Sometimes I feel like a fresh turnip,
uprooted from the field but still close to the earth,
and when I feel like a fresh turnip,
I stand bold and know my worth.