My Office is a Baked Potato, and other vegetables

My room is painted
white and pale
yellow
my leather chair is
yellow
as new butter,
the ceiling trim and walls are
the color of a
salted
buttered
baked
potato.

In this warm yellow
light
I wear an Irish knitted
cream
wool sweater
sitting
in the soft yellow
lamplight.

I
harvest thoughts
white potato-meat poems,
winter thoughts,
soft thoughts,
bare tree thoughts,
as the trees
once pumpkiny
squashy
burnt
bronze,
Tahitian-tan
leaves,
now are a potato chip
crisp
carpet,
orange
crush, like
crunching
brown boots bearing
down on
Cheetos, or Cheerios.
Out my window
all the lush summer greens
have stiffened,
now all
jarring air,
hard ground.
The hot air furnace ROARS
and my old
creamsicle
orange and white
dog
smiles
and groans
in the autumn of her
life.

Meanwhile,
the oven
beeps,
the bronzey
orangey,
pumpkiny
pie
burns a bit,
charred,
on its baked brown
crust.
We crunch the crust,
warm pie melts
into our bones,
orangey,
squashy,
pumpkiny,

in the ovens
of our bodies