12 Another poem for poetry month
Though I new I couldn’t manage a poem per day, I’ll try instead for one per week. Here’s this week’s–again, apologies to those who don’t like poetry. Perhaps you’ll check in on Bingley instead.
At Dinner, In Praise of Potatoes
Potatoes, like cats and whales,
can do anything.
Well, not anything.
They can swim, sit meditatively, face the heat.
They can fly, though not unaided.
Potatoes go with anything.
Well, not anything:
not with starches, like rice,
but with vegetables or meat,
with eggs or alone,
with herbs and condiments,
dips and onions and beans,
not with pasta, but with talk or silence.
Against all odds,
they’re now good for the heart,
good for the waist (in moderation),
good for the soul
with milk or greens
or coffee (in moderation).
I will treat my potato respectfully,
pray over it,
and then devour it.