William Stobb

I Cross Lake Michigan with the Couples’ Therapist

who designed The Emotional

Mister Potato Head: snap joy leg

into violent skull and the monstrous affect

hobbles on its eyeball. 

Fun at parties sure but recently

married himself he can’t believe

his own vows will stick.

How could something so feeble become fifty years?

It’s like he’s attaching the very

ear of betrayal he himself invented

to the belly button of neither

-forgiving-nor-accepting-responsibility.

Crushed in gravel, his dumb shovel face

dreams of Michigan: lakes, trees,

sex in moonlit cabins. I say look:

when you only have summer

experiences with a place, you’re fooled

into believing you’d be happy there forever.

Try to focus on the companionship

or the great toaster from Aunt Joyce

instead of her high voice and low

housekeeping standards. He just keeps opposing

his innate fastidiousness

to his list of great Michigan lovers:

a thumb-index assembly

to run the joystick of possibly

cheating on her as soon as tomorrow

when the high-speed ferry

will carry us into

the plastic emotional bone yard

known to many

as Ypsilanti.